The Reign of Grindelwald, Part 1: After the Fall
by The.Bob.Bobinson
Summary: Grindelwald won his duel against Dumbledore in 1945. In the decades since, his empire has come to dominate the world and all peoples in it. Emily Potter, daughter of terrorists and a Hogwarts graduate herself, alongside Ron Weasley, her best friend, must navigate this frightening new world of dark magic, evil plots, and hopeless rebellion. Fem!Harry, post Hogwarts
1. Foreword

**Part 1: After the Fall**

 **Foreword**

A/N:

Let's just get this out of the way: this story is heavily AU in terms of what happened in history: it's fictional historical fiction, a what-if scenario if Grindelwald won WW2. It still adheres roughly to the rules of canon magic, with some fanon sprinkled in for good measure (expect wands, flying brooms, wards, rituals, and duels; don't expect magical cores, super duper Lord Potter, or any of the other cracky tropes). Given the historical divergence, you'll also see new locations, and locations much expanded from canon. Again: this is a world without the Statute of Secrecy. Wizards and witches can cast however many spells they want-and get away with it; they rule the world, after all.

This is also a post-Hogwarts story and a Fem!Harry story. Fem!Harrry because artistic license; I myself like reading female protagonists, so it follows that I like writing them too. Not to worry, I try to remain true to her canon characterization as much as possible, alongside other characters too (some have been irreparably changed by living in a magical dictatorship, though). As for post-Hogwarts: Emily Potter had a relatively normal 7 years learning magic (albeit with more dark magic). She didn't kill a professor, fight a Basilisk, rescue her Godfather, compete in a tournament, train a vigilante group, find the secrets of Voldemort, or hunt horcruxes. There was drama, but only of the normal, teenage variety.

Why? Well, I don't want to rehash canon-even be tempted to do so. So instead, Emily just had a normal seven years with no adventures. And, for the canon, non-meta explanation: in this world, Dumbledore's presumed dead, Snape is the Headmaster, and Voldemort is Grindelwald's trusted number 2. Not much room for adventures in this controlled environment; and besides, I wanted to tell a story of revolution and war, not of schoolyard plots and whatnot.

Given the setting, this is also a dystopian story that veers on the darker side of things. People will die, get tortured, get betrayed, and so on.


	2. Chapter 1: Another Day, Another Galleon

**Chapter 1: Another Day, Another Galleon**

A/N: Confused? Read the foreword. Beyond that, sit back, relax, and enjoy the show.

I own nothing about Harry Potter.

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"Emily," someone said, the sing-song voice penetrating the pillow. "Eeeeemillyyyy," the voice said again.

She groaned, her head pounding as if she just took a bludger to the face. Just a minute ago, she'd been in a blissful drunken sleep, and now, the hangover to end all hangovers was slamming through her skull, ricocheting across her poor brain. Someone had better be dead or dying, or she swore on the Master himself she'd hex them with the worst pimple blossom she could conjure.

With a rough swipe, she tossed the pillow to the floor. The dim light burned through her eyes at once. Emily groaned, again. Firewhiskey was the devil's piss, and it tasted just as bad. For not the first nor probably last time, she swore never again to drink. As her vision adjusted to her loft, she rolled off her bed and gave a stretch-bones cracking as she did. Snatching her glasses, she looked at the mirror to see who could be calling her at this hour.

The mirror, standard fare from Chinese ward-makers, was a half-decent knock-off. More importantly, it displayed caller-id, unlike some of the older models. One day, she'd install a portable wireless in her ear to be able to call anyone from anywhere, but with her measly income, the best she could do was this mirror. The name glimmered a bright red: Ronald Weasley. Okay, maybe she wouldn't curse him to hell and back, but he'd still better have a damn good reason for waking her up at… she looked at the clock on the upper right corner of the mirror. _Damn_. It was already past noon.

 _Never again_ , she lied to herself. She tapped the mirror, and saw her groggy face replaced by a smirking ginger staring back at her.

"You look like shit," he said.

"Thanks, asshole," Emily said. She took a cursory glance down at herself. At least she wasn't naked-having at least the common decency to wear panties and a braless tank before hitting her bed last night. Not that Ron would've cared-even though they weren't blood-related, they might as well have been siblings. True, they did go on one date in sixth year, but it went about as well as flirting with almost-family could go.

"Down a hangover potion and come over to the Cauldron," Ron said. "I got a bead on something big," he continued before she could ask.

That perked her up a bit, though she'd need the potion to really get her brain working. "What is it, just tell me."

"Not over the mirror," he said. "Just… remember last night?"

"Barely."

"Well, you saw who I went home with?"

She paused for a minute and struggled to recall. "With an invisible lady?"

"Ha. Ha. No, with Millicent."

"Eww. Buttstrode?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "We didn't do anything. I just walked her home."

"Uh huh. Ron Weasley, if you're smelling like farts, please take a shower first. In fact, take a shower regardless. Or take two."

"Poor girl is never gonna live down my brothers' prank, is she?" Emily shook her head. "Well, as I was walking her, she told me that a friend of a friend who knows someone else needed some help."

"Great. This friend got a name?"

"No. Well, yes, probably. But that doesn't matter. Because I called them up and they let me know they were looking for us. About to contact us, in fact. Judging by what I heard, they need wands."

"All right Weasley," Emily said rubbing her eyes. "Color me intrigued. I'll be in the Cauldron in a bit."

He smiled and flicked his mirror, ending the call. Emily took a look at herself in the mirror, then at her bed, and wanted nothing else than to crawl back inside. Instead, she sauntered over to the bathroom cabinet which contained all her potions. While she was by no measure potion-rich, one thing she always carried plenty of was Maximoff's patented hangover cure. Downing the flask, she resisted the urge to vomit it all back up and waited a half-minute for the potion to settle. As she did, she washed her face. When she looked back up at the non-mag mirror, the potion was already doing its magic.

Her eyes lost their half-dead look, the bright green shining once more. Her skin returned to its normal pink. She could even see her lightning scar on her forehead-a bright red today and standing out. She never knew where she got it from. To hear the orphanage matron speak of it, her parents had dropped Emily on her head one too many times.

Throwing the empty flask into the vanishing bin, Emily made her way back into the main room-part bedroom, part living room, part kitchen, part dining room (rents in Knockturn afforded her little enough space as it was, even with expansion charms). Grabbing her wand, she gave the window a casual flick. The opaque dull dark-grey tone immediately cleared up, transparently showing the chaos of the world beyond.

Knockturn Alley was less a small street and more a compacted city inside a city. It included several haphazardly-slapped on buildings on top of buildings, such that Emily herself lived a few hundred feet off the ground. There was no sense or order to the construction; people just built and built until they reached the max building height-and then they just built horizontally. Some of the richer tenements floated above without any support, for those who could afford the appropriate warding.

To the left, she saw the long slope down leading to Unterlondon-literally, Lower London. While the poor had always called Knockturn home, in recent decades, people kept digging deeper and deeper seeking lower and cheaper rents, building their homes into the literal underworld. As a child, she was afraid of the beasts and threats that dwelled in those darkest holes, but as someone two years a legal adult, Unterlondon was practically a second home to her.

To her right, the ground sloped up to Diagon Alley. There, the same haphazard building architecture, another mini-city but still-everything was cleaner there. More well put. No creatures of lesser repute traveled that far into the light. At the center of it all: Gringotts-the Bank of England, Scotland, and Ireland. To live in Diagon was the highest mark one could aim for-not counting Whitehall, of course.

Her eyes focused on the enchanted propaganda coloring the walls of the opposite building, where two bridges converged and split off into alternating staircases. The Master of Death himself-or just the Master-was giving another speech, flanked by the flags of the Deathly Hallows. His face was youthful, full of vim and vigor. While the sound was muted by her window, she could still hear him pounding through it all. Yet another speech about magical supremacy. Other similar flags dotted the skyline atop the buildings, the skyline shared equally among brooms, owls, flying ships, and balloons. Above it all, the dense reddish-brown fog that always covered London. If she had a window behind her, she'd see the Ministry's pyramid.

There had been a time, before the Master, before the War, that Muggles and magickind were kept separate. Where Knockturn and Diagon had been proper alleys. The histories were vague, though. The few Ministry-approved books on the subject of Pre-Master Time said Wizards and Witches were slaves of the Muggles, willingly and often killed by their jealous cousins. That is, until the Master arrived, threw off their chains, and corrected the world to its proper course: where Might Makes Right, For the Greater Good. And who had more might than those with magic? And who knew the Greater Good better than the Master?

At least, that's what all the books and all the professors and every Ministry official said. Emily knew the world was far less perfect and rosy than the picture they painted. At times, she wondered what it would've been like had the Master been defeated. She would've had parents, for one.

Emily shook her head and threw on her clothes: dark jeans, a thick wool overshirt, and boots. Finally, she threw on her black robe, a mark which made her known to the world as a witch. Without it, most Hitwizards would assume her a squib-or worse, a Muggle. While she could wear any color for her robe, she preferred black-easier to blend in that way.

There had been a time for about a year she had the badge that marked her a Ministry official-basically, a do not interfere sign to anyone not an Auror or more important. Alas, the job wasn't worth the all-access pass. Slipping the wand into her enchanted sleeve-holster, she left her apartment, the locking spells automatically shielding it from intrusion as soon as the door met the rest of the wall.

Flickering lights and the faint stench of molding elf piss greeted her. On the wall facing her, the old graffiti still up: 'Expell-your-ARSE-us,' it said. Still as hilarious as the first time. She could've wiped it clean with a spell in a second, but that was the job of some poor Ministry junkie or Muggle, not her. Emily made her way down, towards the stairs, taking heed not to step on the drunk, passed out Muggle on the way. While most Muggles were used for breeding or as slaves, a large minority were free, living lives as subhuman workers. This chap must've passed out after a long day at a factory, where he probably worked. For his sake, she hoped he made it to his next shift on time.

The stairs only went down two flights before depositing her near the elevator, which she took-thankfully empty-to the street level. While she could apparate or floo or even fly her Cleansweep to the Leaky Cauldron, she lived close enough she could walk. Besides, it'd give her a good excuse to stretch her legs, and no doubt Hooch'd be proud if she could see her willingly exercise.

Knockturn at the bottom was like Knockturn at the top: chaotic, poorly managed, and with the dull boom of the Master above them all. All around, people moved with the hurried pace of tiny bees, or the slow march of uncaring slugs. It was a rainbow assortment-hundreds of thousands moving this way and that, back and forth, here and there. Street shops clogged the ground, selling trinkets, cheap potions, and food. The vendors, loud and fighting for supremacy. While most looked human, she knew more than a few had other blood mixed in there. There: a chained succubus, her legs open to passersby, a sign beneath her which read 'a galleon for a poke', with a snarling Goblin guard above. Across from them, a mother, feeding her babe with what looked like purple Singal blood in a bottle. And there: a crew of little wizards, playing zap the Muggle with their toy wands. And the Hitwizard, staring straight at her.

Hitwizards came in all sorts of shapes and sizes. The most common breed was the Peace Hitwizard. Clad in reinforced warded steel plate, their face covered in black metal, only their eyes visible; they cut a frightsome image. But behind that veneer, Emily knew well enough that they were just human like her. Some were even squibs or particularly well-bred Muggles, relying on enchanted weapons instead of wands, but most who did have magic could cast a half-decent stunner or killer when asked. Once a upon a time, she could've seen herself in that cloth. But a Ministry job, one that meant and paid well, would forever be out of reach with her tainted name.

Not that she was afraid of this, or any, particular Hitwizard. Far more fearsome were the all-red Aurors, one of whom was worth ten steel-worn Hitwizards. And beyond that, there were the Master's armed forces: the Sturmkrieger. They all paled in comparison to the Death Eaters, led by Lord Voldemort. Compared to all that, Hitwizards looked like children with glowing sticks.

Still, her record was mostly clean and she wanted to keep it that way, so she averted her eyes and continued on her way. With a careful glance backward, she insured she wasn't being followed. While she hadn't done anything too illegal recently, she knew arrests could happen at any time for any reason. Which is why her robe always contained enough galleons to make curious Hitwizards look away. It was that, or risk having her wand snapped and herself being condemned to the camps. Just another one of the fun benefits of living in Knockturn.

She continued her climb up towards Diagon. Technically, the Leaky Cauldron existed in neither Diagon nor Knockturn, instead being one of the entry points to Greater London-that part of London where the majority of the Muggles lived. As pubs went, though, it was dingy and battered yet with an air of sophistication enough to cater to both Alleys. Ron swore by the far worse Sportin' Harlots in the upper echelon of Unterlondon (better Quidditch reception, according to him), but they both enjoyed the nostalgia. Her first time visiting the Cauldron had been at age 11, to get her witching supplies for her first year at Hogwarts. She smiled at the memory-and of meeting Ron for the first time. Without him, she'd probably have ended up killing herself a half-dozen times in the twisted and confusing layout of Diagon.

"Emily Potter!" an unfamiliar voice said. "As I live and breathe, it is you!" Emily didn't stop. She suspected what it was before it fully materialized. Before her, a magogram solidified, wearing the face of a wizened old man, clad in a Hogwarts professor's robes. A poor mimicry of Slughorn, she thought.

"Not interested," she said, walking through the ethereal device. Most of them were limited by distance, being tied to a runestone somewhere. It was the same magic that drove Ministry and Master propaganda, though on a smaller scale.

"But Emily, my dear boy, we've got a two for one on enchanted rings over at Snippers," the infernal thing continued.

"I'm not a boy!" she yelled. Obviously, not all magograms had the same quality.

"But Em-" the voice cutoff suddenly as she crossed the threshold beyond the maximum distance. She hated those things. Not once had she actually visited a shop based on those advertisements.

Swinging over to the shaded part of the curved, still-climbing street to avoid any more unwanted ads, she regretted it immediately as she grew yet another tail: a pale-as-moon vampire. Sure, he was trying to be sneaky, clinging to the darker shadows and stepping lightly; but, when your eyes literally glow red, there were limits even to a vampire's natural talent. She entertained his meagre stalk for a little while longer, thinking back to her Defense Against Magical Creatures class on how to slay one of these creatures. Not that she wanted to specifically kill a vampire-she just didn't want to be its afternoon snack.

Her predator followed her for a few steps more when-she ducked behind a less crowded corner. A smart vampire would've seen the sudden movement and abandoned the hunt. Why seek elusive, potentially smart-definitely dangerous prey, when lazy, near-blind Muggles were easier? A hungry vampire though, wouldn't care. They'd charge, and keep charging, into direct sunlight if need be, for a taste of dinner. As luck would have it, it was the latter.

It jumped the corner, swinging around, using its powerful arms as greater leverage, clearly expecting an Emily-sized morsel to be there instead of thin air. Unfortunately for the hungry vampire, Emily had already disillusioned and descented herself, and was a few steps away. Now, she could continue walking, and let bygones go their separate ways, but… No. A vampire this desperate? He'd wind up killing someone. While their bites weren't lethal, particularly hungry ones would feed well past the point of lethality. Not that Emily cared about her neighbors. As far as she was concerned, some of them deserved to get exsanguinated. Unfortunately, that'd bring down the Creature Hitwizards, and all the other Hitwizards down on this community for at least a week.

Rather than deal with the increased patrols, she cast the Full Body Bind, freezing the vampire in place, and made herself visible and smellable again. "Hi there," she said, relaxing the spell a bit to allow the vampire to talk.

"Cur!" the vampire said, spitting on her clothes.

"Now, now. Manners." She applied a small _Lumos_ to the tip of her wand. Not bright enough to cause anything but some mild eye pain if he looked at it. "You look hungry."

He responded by moving his mouth, yet making no real sound save low grunts. Were he not in the body bind, Emily knew he'd be slashing wildly at her with teeth and fangs. As creatures, vampires were technically afforded less rights than that of Muggles-similar to that of Mudbloods, in truth. In reality, officials sometimes released them in populated areas to curb Muggle population and keep them weak through terror and blood-drawing. It was also rumored that the Death Eaters used vampires in their own secret activities. Knockturn had always been a haven for vampires-if not for Muggle population control or Death Eater plots, then to simply keep the other dark creatures like werewolves in check.

"You must be pretty desperate-or stupid-to attack a witch in the middle of Knockturn," Emily said, reaffixing her glare into the vampire's eyes. "Why?"

He spat again, this time missing her clothes by a hastily thrown shield by Emily. "Can't go into Greater London no more. Ministry don't let us pass."

"So, you've all been drinking on Muggle blood too freely then?" His eyes said everything she needed to hear. "And now, the Ministry is looking to curb your numbers a bit."

"Please, noble mistress," the vampire said, now changing tact. "I beg of you. Help me. We're all starving."

Such was the nature of Ministry-vampire relations. During feed years, the vampires would breed new ones, and gorge graciously on Muggles. During cull years, their numbers would be cut down through starvation. There was nothing Emily could do to truly help him, save offer her own blood. Now there was a dumb idea: doing that would give the vampire her scent, and he'd be able to use it to track her back home. It was like giving a Pixie Dust addict the Queen Pixie herself. Clearly, things weren't meant to be.

"Fine, I'll help you," she said.

"Oh?" the vampire said. "Please mistress, thank you, thank you!"

Emily summoned a nearby shard of wood and banished it into the vampire's heart once it was close enough. The vampire froze, then disintegrated into a pile of ash; nothing left but clothes and the stick. There was no other way. The killing curse required a lot of power, and throwing him into the sun would've been too much pain for the poor fool. At least this way, it was quick, and he didn't need to suffer anymore.

With a last flick of her wand, she flung the clothes into the wind, and continued her hike up to the Cauldron.


	3. Chapter 2: Diagon

Chapter 2: Diagon

A/N: Currently my posting schedule is going to be a chapter a week, until we reach the end of Part 1 (which is shaping up to be 30ish chapters). I'll bulk post all the remaining chapters once I'm done, though.

* * *

Sticking firmly to the sunny part of Knockturn, Emily hoped she wouldn't be accosted by any other critters on her way to meet Ron. Had the Alley been constructed with any iota of sense, without its dips and curvatures and magical expansion, she'd already been the warm reclines of the pub-she didn't live that far from it, after all. But the Alley's street had no sense to it-magic distorted reality, if nothing else. Maybe she should've flooed. At least the smell was better the further up she went.

Emily made it as far as seeing the curved spinal structure of Gringotts before stopping again. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she saw the distinctive red: _Aurors_. There were six of them in total, including a gold-rimmed Auror Captain. They seemed to be focused on a building and not her. She didn't draw her wand, noticing the crowd of people formed around them. With careful steps forward, she joined the gathering.

The Aurors were more than just law enforcement. In each country around the world, they were the Master's primary method of control, each headed by an Auror Chief. England's was Bellatrix Black, infamous for her proclivity for the torture curse and using it on live executions. When it came to magical talent and skill, the Aurors had no equal. Well, perhaps other than the Death Eaters, that was.

The politics of Nurmengard escaped her, but she knew enough as most people did that Igor Karkaroff, Master of the Sphere of Law and Head Auror, had no love for his other enforcement equal, Lord Voldemort. Which is just how the Master liked it; why have one enforcer when you could have two, busy fighting each other instead of you? But whereas the Aurors at least pretended to follow the word of the law, the Death Eaters shared no such qualms. If you saw their dark robes and enchanted silver mask: chances were, you were already a ghost and already dead.

The crowd maintained a respectable distance, ever far beyond the conjured, glowing red ticker tape. They stood before one of the many shacks of Knockturn. Emily knew she should just keep walking, but a part of her was curious. Besides, Aurors in Knockturn typically meant some witch or wizard got killed. She shoved past an older squib and his elf, and found a box to stand on.

A body lay strewn on the ground, clad in purple robes, face down in a pool of drying blood. Two Aurors examined it, while the rest went inside. The Auror Captain held up his wand, and it glowed a blue-gold, ejecting a dome of transparent energy surrounding him and the crime scene.

The purple clad murder victim appeared then, standing straight and glowing a dimmer blue, as if he were a ghost or magogram. Emily knew this was highly advanced magic-beyond anything taught at Hogwarts. To be able to reconstruct a crime scene like this, before the murder… The wizard walked forward, unaware of the drawn crowd and his own corpse. He kept walking, right through the Auror Captain, and into the building.

The crowd waited. A minute later, the wizard was flung from the window on the second floor, collapsing right on top of his present-corpse. The Auror Captain dispelled the illusion, and started rubbing his chin.

Emily started dispersing with the majority of the crowd, her mind racking who might've killed him. At least she didn't know the man. He was just yet another nameless victim of Knockturn. As places went, it had one of the highest murder rates in the world. Not that there were any statistics. If there wasn't at least a single corpse rotting out in any given day, something would have to be going seriously wrong.

Maybe a creature did the wizard in. A vampire, like the one that accosted her. But then, why was he flung from the window? Vampires liked to hide their dead victims in the dark, to return to them for a second draw if need be. Maybe it was another wizard or witch, for whatever personal reasons. Or, a Muggle or squib? Despite what the Ministry said, Muggles could kill their magical brethren. It wasn't easy, and one needed a lot of luck and skill, but it could be done.

Ultimately it didn't matter. He was dead, and she was not.

At least she knew why the Aurors were here. Any time a wizard or witch died, no matter how slam-dunk the case, the Aurors had to be called. Muggles and creatures weren't afforded the same luxury-they were lucky to have a single Hitwizard look into the case. The only exception were the Goblins, who had sole right to investigate crimes against their Nation.

With no other distractions, Emily made it to the tunnel separating Diagon and Knockturn a few short minutes later. The U-Shaped arched passageway looked as dark as ever, with only a few blue flaming torches lighting the way. The tunnel curved downwards before shaping back up top once more. A dozen Hitwizards on the ground, plus another dozen on the parapets above, stood guard. Judging by the chevrons on their shoulder pads, these were veterans-as always, the Ministry put the hardiest of the fighters in the most critical of locations. Ministry propaganda covered the walls before the tunnel.

While travel wasn't necessarily restricted per se if one had magic, the Hitwizards loved to sniff out potential troublemakers before they entered the well-to-do's abode. Emily, dressed in non-descript black, yet with a haughty up-turned nose in the air, cultivated after seven years in Slytherin, walked past the guards without a second glance.

Down in the tunnel, the stale, cold air chilled her passage. Here the crowd thinned out; few enough people had legitimate business in Diagon. Even if travel weren't restricted for Muggles and other creatures, they wouldn't be able to afford anything in the shops. Only Ministry officials, Goblins, and other magical industrialists had enough to shop in the heart of London. The rest made do with the open-air shops, like those in Knockturn.

In a few short paces, she was out once more into the open air. The difference between Diagon and Knockturn was like night and day. Whereas Knockturn had the ephemeral stench of rot and decay; Diagon smelled clean and orderly-artificial even, as if it was all hosed down with heavy chemical potions. The people, all prim and proper, who looked like they belonged. Their clothes were pressed, their skin delicately cared for, and their wands sharp. Their strut was unheeded by anything: vampires, or werewolves, or even grubby beggars. The Ministry was the law here.

Emily stopped at the entrance of Diagon to let a marching column of eight Hitwizards, let by their Captain, pass. Their boots echoed on the paved marble floor, each step a triumphant blast of power. Every few feet, there were two more of them standing silent vigil, their heads firm and affixed, but doubtless their eyes darted back and forth, looking for any risks.

Just as in Knockturn, the buildings swayed back and forth: some floating, but often because of the random, illogical construction standards. Unlike Knockturn though, everything here was just… white. The road was white, the buildings were white, and the white sun shone freely through the large empty spaces above, making it even whiter in reflection. That was the thing-Diagon was free and open and liberating, while everything in Knockturn was clamped together, held up sometimes with nothing but a sticking charm; a single breeze more than enough to knock it all down. Even the haze above London was gone, replaced instead by blue skies and dotted white clouds (an illusion, she knew).

In front of her lay Madam Malkin's-a robe store. To pay for one of her tailored one's, she'd have to save up enough galleons to feed half the Muggles in Knockturn. Next to it, Osgun's: a spellbook store. Above that, a stairway leading to the Muggle slave auction pens.

She looked to the left to make sure no other troops were approaching and saw Ollivander's (a wand store where she had gotten her Holly wand) and Gringotts, the latter standing above all else. The Goblin bank looked as terrifying as always. Thick, slanted marble, cast in the Greek style with tall inlaid pillars. Above the entrance lay the enormous, curled stone dragon-enchanted to burn any thief on exit. For now, it lay silent and unmoving. Not that anyone could ever thieve from Gringotts.

Four Goblins-short, stocky creatures, with green-brown skin-stood guard, their faces a permanent snarl. Each carried his own weapon: a greataxe, a hammer, a sword, and a spear, and each weapon was at least twice the size of the Goblin carrying it. In their offhand lay a wand. Unlike wizarding wands, Goblin wands were of a rougher make. They replaced wood with bone, and the cores were derived using blood magic. The result was more or less the same as wizarding wands, although theirs were mostly suited for offensive spells and curses.

Goblins hadn't always had the right to bear wands. That came with the Master, whom they helped take over the formerly British Ministry during the fall of the Isles. For their loyalty and sacrifices, Goblinkind was elevated to grandeur they hadn't dare dream of. On most days, the Goblins rivalled the Ministry in terms of sheer political power and influence. They ran the major industries. They minted the currency. The entire world revolved around Goblins. Only the iron will of the Aurors and Death Eaters kept the Goblins in check. For there was no doubt: there were more Goblins than wizards, and the average Goblin was worth far more than the average wizard.

She'd been in Gringotts all of once her entire life. She didn't even have an account. Why would she? Her parents left her nothing, their monies frozen when they were executed, and every galleon she ever made she spent, quick as it came. Even if she saved a little to deposit, the fees alone would've bankrupted her. Had she continued on in the Ministry, her first account would've been opened in two years on her behalf, with all fees taken care of for five years. But that was all past now, and Emily doubted she'd ever muster enough reason to enter the Goblin den ever again.

Emily looked right, and seeing no oncoming Hitwizards or traffic, started moving towards the Cauldron. Along the way, she saw several other shops, more displays of vanity and wealth. She could've avoided this by using the lower tunnels, which would've swung her out to Greater London and then back to the Cauldron, but this way was quicker.

It didn't matter: the Leaky Cauldron finally came into view, and with it, the promises of: a good meal, nice atmosphere, but most importantly, whatever the hell Ron wanted to talk about.


	4. Chapter 3: The Leaky Cauldron

Chapter 3: The Leaky Cauldron

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The Leaky Cauldron. As wizards-and-witches-only places went, she could do far, far worse. According to legend, it was built on a Nordic runestone, left by Viking invaders from the 9th Century. No one's ever found the runestone, but that the place ebbed and flowed with magic couldn't be denied. Throughout all of Magical English history, the Cauldron had stood: when William the Conqueror crossed the channel using a massive Portkey wrought by his loyal mages, the Cauldron's spiny wooden peaks and tiny windows had borne witness. When Oliver Cromwell lopped the king's head off and launched his rebellion, it was here he secured the Wizengamot's loyalty. When the Goblin nation was at last broken after their umpteenth rebellion, it was here that the final treaty was signed.

And when the Master crossed the channel after the defeat of the Muggle armies in Europe, it was on these cold, black steps that he had given the Goblins their rights, reversing old gains.

The Leaky Cauldron, therefore, was less a part of history than it was just history. A crossroads for all things: magical and mundane, simple and not. Of course, there was much to be said about its natural charm, which it had in spades. The fine-grained wooden exterior gave it a nice, homely feel, while the swinging metal sign of the Cauldron bespoke of a medieval inn-which it had been, of course.

Emily reached the entrance-from the Diagon side, it was nothing but a moss-covered wall. Back when Muggles and the Magical didn't interact much, if at all, it was a decent cover. Muggles could enter the Cauldron, of course. But then they'd reach the wall and be forever blinded to the Magical world. Now that the Master ruled, the wall served as a blockage for Muggles-it wasn't proper for the lesser creatures to enter such a historical building. Drawing her wand, she tapped the wall three times and watched as the bricks shifted, shrunk, and parted for her. As soon as she stepped through the threshold, it had already reformed.

An orange haze hung high in the rafts, a powerful hearth burning bright in the center of the room. Above the hearth, the infamous Cauldron itself. For the past eight hundred years, it had been boiling the same perpetual stew. Even during the fall of London, the stew kept churning. It had never been cleaned, and long after Emily was dead, it would still never be cleaned.

The low din of conversation hummed in her ears-as always, there was a bevy of customers. Some scrunched over tiny mirrors and orbs, watching the news or Quidditch. A few drank carelessly and freely, as if their world were ending. Tammy, the bartender, was pouring three pitchers of ale at once, using her wand to curve the ale from the barrel a few feet away from her to the glasses. Emily took a deep breath. The air here was thick with the guzzling stench of frying pork sausages, sizzling chicken, and crisp aurochs. Her mouth watered-she knew she should've eaten before coming.

Her eyes searched for the tell-tale red hair of a Weasley. When she first came to the Cauldron years ago, it had been a guiding beacon to her, like a moth to a wandlight. Seeing the confused 11-year-old orphaned Emily, the matriarch Weasley, Molly, had snatched her at once and practically adopted her as one of her own.

She found him easily enough; the red hair really did do wonders: Ronald Weasley, there stuffing a pork sausage down his gullet, another half-dozen coloring his plate alongside a smattering of other foods. Emily smiled and walked over, plopping down in front of him on the other side of the booth. Saying nothing, she swiped a sausage and devoured it in a single bite-it was so good, a bit of grease dribbling down her chin.

"Oy!" Ron said, his mouth full.

Emily took a chug of his coffee. "I haven't eaten anything."

"Why do I always end up feeding you?" Ron asked, shaking his head.

"Your mother does always say you should eat less and I, more."

At that, Ron rolled his eyes. He had an above-average build: formed biceps and flat tummy; if he ate much more he'd lose both. In fact, he'd grown quite attractive, especially in the low light. His chin and neck formed a sharp edge, his red hair ruffled just right for other girls to raise an appreciative eyebrow. Even his clothes were a step up from the standard Weasley fare: dark green brimmed with golden robes. If they weren't literally, practically siblings, Emily might've been half-smitten.

"Don't remind me," Ron said with a grumble.

"How is Molly, by the way?" she asked.

Ron took a minute to eat a slice of ham; Emily slashed her way through some more of his sausages. "Fine as can be," he said after swallowing. "Burrow's still a bit quiet. Mum's wanting to add another room in Lower Unterlondon. Percy's still living with his git girlfriend, looking to apply to the Ministry, but you know Dad's record. The twins have been asking me more and more to help out. Charlie's fine, Bill's fine. Ginny is still hunting for a Quidditch team that'll sign her on." He shrugged. "Not much, really."

"Another room in the Burrow?" she asked.

Once upon a time the Burrow, the Weasley abode, had been a large, wooden structure in Ottery St Catchpole. It stood as proud as a wizarding house could be-a veritable castle in the countryside. After Ron's dad was captured and sentenced, though, they lost the right to the land, and had to move. Rather than tear their house down and start anew, Molly had instead opted to build it out in low rent places, moving each room across London, and then tying each room together using magic. It was an impressive display of skill-you could enter via Knockturn and exit near Whitehall in as few as a handful of steps. That type of portal magic was very difficult to cast, and even more complex to maintain. But Molly had managed it all, all while raising a veritable brood of children. To add another on top of that would take months of work-and with all her children moved out except for Ginny and Ron, she couldn't see why Molly would put herself in that spot.

"She's restless and lonely," Ron said. "She gets like this every anniversary, you know. But it was better when she had you, and me, and all the rest around. We really tired her out." He smiled, which Emily shared.

"I remember one time, George charmed her to look like Bellatrix Black," Emily said, barely containing her laughter.

"Never say my mother isn't a decent flyer, the way she chased poor George through the dregs."

Emily nodded. "I'll visit some time." She'd been meaning to talk to Ginny for a while now. Out of all the Weasleys, she'd always had a closer, different connection with her.

"Anyways," Ron said, stabbing a hard-boiled egg, "what took you so long?"

Emily shook her head. "Hangover, vampire, and Aurors, in that order. I also walked."

"No wonder you're so skinny. Wait… Aurors?"

"Yeah, they were investigating another murder. One of our own."

"Bloody hell." Both of them knew about the risks of living in Knockturn and London in general. It felt like it was happening every day now.

"And that's not all," Emily said, continuing. "The vampires are on cull."

"Already? Again?"

Emily nodded. "Caught one trying to bleed me soon as I left my house."

"And?"

"He's bone-dust now."

"Good riddance," Ron said, taking another swig of less-steaming coffee. "Think he or one of his fellow vamps did that guy in?"

"Maybe… killing a wizard isn't easy, but it honestly could be anyone."

"Werewolves."

"Mountain troll," Emily said, offering her own hypothesis.

"Snarks and grumpkins."

"Himself." They shared another smile. "So, the job," Emily said. "Well?"

"Mmm!" Ron said, wiping his lips and hands with a napkin, likely remembering the reason he had called Emily here the first place. "You know Griphook?"

"Sounds Goblin."

"C'mon Em. Griphook. Clan leader? One of the 7? Runs a decent part of Unterlondon?"

"Call me Goblinist, but they all sound the same to me."

Ron rolled his eyes, this time so far, they went back into his head. Both of them had little love for Goblinkind-they were brutish, violent, greedy little grubs who would kill all wizards if they could get away with it. Their names even evoked this desire for mass rampage: 'Griphook', 'Hammerthorn', 'Crushjaw', 'Killnut'; Emily wouldn't be surprised if they had a 'Murder McStabyface' leading a clan somewhere.

"Well, Griphook," Ron said. "He wants us."

That didn't bode well. Emily took a glance around the pub, her wrist itching to draw out her wand. There few reasons Goblins wanted to see Wizards and Witches. As they weren't fans of tea and crumpets, it obviously didn't bode well.

As if picking up on her heightened senses, Ron said, "Not like that. We're not in trouble or anything."

"Oh yeah? What in Salazar's name does one of the 7 want do with us?"

"A job."

"A job?"

"A job," Ron said, reaffirming what she thought she heard. She sunk back in her seat.

"Oh."

"You remember that bit of wandwork we did a month back?" Ron asked.

"Gee, what wandwork? The one where we nearly died and you ended up in a coma for a week?"

Ron gulped, scratching his chest, where a scar might've been if not for extensive healing spells. That hadn't been the most fun job, to say the least. Hunting a rampant automaton was a job for Aurors, not for recent Hogwarts graduates. And it wasn't just a plain old automaton either-it was a specially made one: an advanced, one-of-a-kind prototype. Its creator had been the mad inventor type; someone who relished in creating dangerous and often illegal artifacts. The automaton was no exception.

As a Class IX Magical Artifact, automatons were highly regulated by all Ministries. They could be used for grunt work in lieu of Muggles, but their primary function was to kill. They were so dangerous, only Greece and Turkey still actively employed them, and mostly only in a ceremonial role-they were historically used to guard Kings and Emperors. Hence why Emily and Ron had been hired: the automaton was given an ounce too much of self-determination and free will, and turned on its master. True, some sources called automatons nothing more than glorified charmed machines-but that belied their insidious nature.

To start-their bronze armor was often Goblin-quality, and as such, protected against most spellfire. In fact, it could absorb magic, and be used against attackers. Carved wards and runes, infused with an overdosage of magic, reinforced the plates, making the innards practically untouchable. For offense, it carried a slew of deadly weapons: often-poisoned blades that could retract and extend from their arms, Greek fire that spewed from the wrists, and enough strength to punch through a thick stone wall. Even the Weasley twins stayed far enough away from making new automatons.

Realizing he was facing execution if caught by the Aurors, the inventor, one Ludo Bagman, had instead opted to hire them. They took the job, of course. Galleons were hard enough to come by as it was, and their last job (cleaning Doxies out of a Ministry employee's house) was neither too profitable nor that intellectually rewarding. At least Ludo had managed to secure the automaton in his lab.

They went through the roof. Things went wrong almost at once. The automaton, busy slamming on the Protego Maxima'd door, immediately twisted its head 360 degrees to face them, and let out a low, inhuman roar; its face glowed red instead of the sickly blue it had before. Emily, mostly by instinct, launched a killing curse.

Part of the NEWT for the Defense Against Magical Creatures course and the Dark Arts course required one to master the killing curse, and use it to kill at least a Class V Creature. She opted for a Mountain Troll for the highest marks. Trolls were by their nature resistant to most types of magic. And the mountain variety weren't harmed at all by sunlight, so there could be no hasty out by way of an overpowered lumos. One of the only things that was powerful enough to punch through the resistance was the killing curse. As curses went, it was also extraordinarily hard to cast. It required perfect mental concentration and the ability to think illogically. For not only did it need to be powered with undying hatred, enough to want to kill, you also had to be completely unemotional: cold and detached. Other curses could kill just as well, but the killing curse remained the only one that paid no heed to shields, or armor, or resistances. The troll never stood a chance.

Alas, automatons weren't living. They might've had organic components in them, but there was no life inherent in it to kill. The killing curse splashed harmlessly on its armor. Oh well. It had been worth a try. Ron launched his own bevy of destructive spells. Against a normal wizard, it was enough to crush bones, split limbs from the body, and render one's organs into mush. Against an automaton, it just looked tickled.

It took the both of them putting up their strongest shields to stop the oncoming onslaught of Greek fire. Their next plan was to flank it, using apparition. They both zapped to the opposing walls of the high-ceiling, vaulted lab, applying a sticking charm to their clothes to avoid falling back down. The automaton stopped its assault at once, and twisted its neck to see both of them. Before it could react, they launched conjured metal chains, seizing its arms. Then they simply summoned the arms.

It didn't budge. The automaton instead extended its arm blades. Ludo had warned them about this. He'd coated them in the Manticore venom. The conjured chains stood no chance. Before either of them could react, the automaton leaped from the ground, and flew up to Ron. Its right arm stabbed Ron through the chest, and Ron fell to the ground, already pale-the blade, coated red.

In that moment, Emily thought Ron had died. She launched a series of her own harrowing curses-even a diminutive fiendfyre. That had been enough to crack the plating, but it jumped towards her regardless. She disapparated to another wall. It lost no sense of step, and immediately pushed off towards her. She cast another spell and disapparated again. This time, it was even faster in coming after her. It had to end.

Rather than disapparating once more, she held her ground, and put up the most powerful shield she could conjure. A second before it would've clashed with the blade, she let go of both the shield and the sticking charm, and started falling. The automaton was too late in realizing what had just happened. The blade stuck where Emily's head had been. And then-she grabbed its leg and disapparated.

As magical skills went, apparition was bloody hard to learn, but once you had the hang of it, it only got easier with time. The main risk was splinching yourself: going one way while leaving a part of your body behind. It was even riskier when you side-alonged-or when you brought someone along with you. You not only had to keep track of your body, but theirs as well. Emily used this to her advantage.

In the temporal realm of apparition, Emily shoved half of the automaton, in a vertical slice, out of her focus, bringing the other half along with her. When they reappeared, Emily was whole, holding onto half the automaton. The other half appeared a second later, spewing blackish blood as it fell. With the soft underportions exposed, she cast a Finite, and with that, both halves quieted.

Wasting no time, she rushed to Ron's side. A series of spells later and she found he was still alive, but barely. Manticore venom was insidious. It burned the inside organs, melting them into slush. Were it just a scratch or even the full stab, without the poison, she was confident in her own abilities to heal him. As it was, she had to take him to St Mungo's. The mediwitches put him in a magical coma at once, and removed the venom. From there, it was a long week of life support and regrowing his organs. By the time they left the hospital, they had spent all of Ludo's payment.

"Don't tell me we have to fight another automaton," Emily said, her voice lowering into a tiny growl.

Ron threw his hands up. "Believe me, if I never have to see one again I'll be happy. No, apparently Griphook got word of us taking that thing down."

"How? I mean, I thought Bagman wanted it all hush-hush."

"Bugger all if I know. Goblin magic, no doubt."

Not for the last time, Emily silently cursed Goblins. "So we're to be Goblin enforcers then?" A sick feeling sank in her stomach. It was better than a dead-end career in the Ministry, but not by much.

Ron shrugged. "Apparently, it's an audition. Don't know what it is, though. We're supposed to meet him in a few."

"Shit." Emily leaned forward, swiping some eggs for herself. "You sure it's not a trap, that he actually just wants to break our kneecaps and eat them or something?"

"He's more than capable of doing that without inviting us."

"Shit," Emily said again. "All right." She rubbed her eyes, pushing her glasses up. "You wanna do this?"

"I don't want to keep scrounging around for oddjobs, Em. The twins are right, we need to be part of something if we're gonna be anything in this world."

She nodded. They had talked about it many times over. "All right. All right." She took a deep breath and stood up. "Let's go meet this Griphook, then."


	5. Chapter 4: Griphook

**Chapter 4: Griphook**

* * *

"How do we get to him?" Emily asked as soon as they were outside.

"Well, he's in Unterlondon, so I think walking is out of the picture," Ron said. "Don't think he's on the Floo, and I don't trust us apparating somewhere we've never been."

"Knight Bus then?"

"Knight Bus."

Ron held out his wand and cast the summoning charm for the Bus. As they were in Diagon, they didn't have to wait long at all for it to come steaming down, banging and booming through the air as it did. The blue triple-decker they hailed was just one of many in an armada of public transportation. It was one of the few ways Muggles and Squibs could get around in the chaotic, ever-shifting nature of magical London; they had to go to the bus stops though, whereas witches and wizards just needed the charm. Like all buses, it flew in from up high, and skidded to a stop right in front of them. The front door opened.

A young lad, not much older than them stepped out. He was clad in the purple robes of the bus company. The Ministry did love their colour-coded uniforms. He took out a piece of paper, black lettering appearing in a half-second. "Welcome to the Knight Bus, Witch or Wizard," he said, his voice a low dull hum. "My name is Stan Shunpike and I will be conductor for-"

"Yeah, yeah, we get," Ron said. They both walked up to him and handed him several sickles.

"You wan' give a li'l extra for some 'ot choc?" Stan asked.

"Do we look thirteen?" Emily asked. "C'mon Ron."

They sidestepped their conductor and entered the bus. It had three people inside: the driver, a Muggle or Squib, and a tiny House elf, draped in a tattered pillowcase, looking out the window. Emily took a seat on the nearest bed, casting a sticking charm so that it wouldn't roll around as they traveled. Ron did the same to his, opposite of Emily. Stan entered shortly after. Emily glanced at Ron, with a raised eyebrow.

"Right," Ron said. "Warlock's Bosom, Unterlondon."

"Hear that Ernie?" Stan asked. "Want to go to Unterlondon, they's do."

The driver looked back them, and it was only then Emily realized he had no eyes. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket, and whipped out a glass eye, which moved as if by itself, looking at them. Magic, Emily thought. Even after 19 years, it still weirded her out. Ron seemed unfazed-the benefits of growing up in an all-magical family, no doubt. Ernie stuck his glass eye into a fish hook dangling from the ceiling.

"Hands inside, it's gonna be a bumpy ride!" Ernie said.

And with a bang, they were off.

The Knight Bus immediately shot up into the sky, skirting past moving staircases, floating buildings, and shortening itself to fit between two levitating drows. Three witches flew parallel to them, before taking a turn away from the Bus. Having ridden the bus before, Emily held firm to the sides of the bed as they flipped twice in the air. They crested just above Gringotts and then-the sky and sun above shone brightly.

"Need to stop in Greater London firs'," Stan said. "After that, a quick pittie in Whitehall, then we go to your place," he said with a nod to Ron.

Emily looked behind her to see the cityscape beneath them. It stretched out for endless miles: a million buildings, all densely packed together. The sky was no different: clogged with magical travel such as busses, brooms, owls, and ships. As an international city, one of the most important, it received millions of visitors each day from the Continent and beyond. Behind Ron, she saw the sloped Alleys of Knockturn and Diagon. While big from the ground level, it was even larger looking down from above. From here, she could see the start of the spiny tunnels of Unterlondon.

They made a sharp right turn, 90 degrees, putting them in direct sight of the Ministry of Magic. It stood in Whitehall, over the corpses of the former Muggle ministries and Westminster Abbey. Larger than Hogwarts, the Ministry pyramid stretched over several miles, surrounded by columns of powerful, immense statues. Some carried stone scrolls, which blasted Ministry and Master propaganda. Opposite the Thames was the massive main square-an empty, paved land where they held marches, executions, and pronouncements.

It was there she'd gotten her degree from Hogwarts, handed by the Minister himself to her. The day was as clear as ice to her: another thick, red overcast day. Draco looked so pleased with himself; doubtless basking in his father's position and his own power derived from that. The three Hogwarts Houses were well-represented that day, in a bevy of gold, blue, and green. The only unique colour-red-present was Ron's hair.

Once upon a time, there had been four Houses, she knew. But like so many things, it had been vanquished after the War. Even its name had been stricken from the histories. All she knew was that Albus Dumbledore had been one, way back when.

"Knut for your thoughts?" Ron asked.

"Just thinking back to two years ago. Graduation," she said, adding.

"Mmm. Remember when you couldn't find your knickers?"

"I remember we swore never again to speak of it."

"Like a chicken with her head cut off," Ron said, evoking a nasal impersonation of George.

Emily threw a stinging hex at him-wandless and wordless, so he wouldn't see it coming.

"Oy!" Ron put his thumb in his mouth, trying to lick the sting away. "Pretty brilliant piece of magic if you asked me." His voice was low, the thumb in his mouth making speech difficult.

"Making my knickers invisible to sight and touch nearly made me miss graduation."

"They were already on you!"

"I-" Emily stopped mid-sentence. "You're right. It was good magic."

"Thank you," he said, bowing his head. "To be fair, you did get back at me good."

She smiled. "Even after seven years, you never learned that a prank war was unwinnable."

The bus swooped down all of a sudden, in a ninety-degree angle. If Emily didn't like flying, she'd be very, very unwell right now. With a twirl, the Bus landed on a circular street. The doors opened and out went the Muggle or Squib. That just left the Elf. Why it didn't just apparate to Whitehall, she would probably never know. With a bang, the bus was off once more.

Stan walked past them, casting several cleaning charms where the person had been. The Elf meanwhile just stared out the window, deeper and deeper in thought. As they zoomed through the air, occasionally crashing back down on the ground to run through the streets, Emily and Ron reminisced about graduation. Apparently, Ron kissed a fellow graduate during the afterparty, the Greengrass girl. She felt sorry for Ron. Having to room with the ethereal, ever-buzzed fellow Slytherin for seven years, she could only imagine the dullness of their conversation.

Of course, she left out how she had made out with Neville Longbottom. That would be her secret, and no one ever needed to know about Neville's many talents. Alas, it wasn't meant to be; without booze, all Neville wanted to talk about was sword duelling and plants. Emily loved a good wizarding duel, but the sword type? It bored her as much as plant-talk did.

They arrived at Whitehall a few minutes later, the Ministry bearing over them. Having worked here for nearly a year, she knew it was even larger from the inside. Minister Malfoy and Auror Black stood as twin statues, standing guard at one of the four entrances. Malfoy had a scroll, which we waved around to London below. It had the mantra 'Might Makes Right' etched into it. Black, meanwhile, twirled her wand in a stony hand.

"Creeps me out, she does," Stan said then, staring up at the Auror.

Emily and Ron said nothing, sharing only a stare. It didn't need to be said they agreed with the conductor. They only hoped no one else important heard. Bellatrix was a master at the torture curse, after all.

The elf left the Bus then, rubbing its shoulders as it went. Must've been a Ministry elf, then. Odd that it was unaccompanied by any witch or wizard. "To Unterlondon!" Ernie shouted.

And then, another bang, and they twisted back 180 degrees, and flew off and up into Unterlondon. They were really picking up speed now, the land below zooming past them. It wasn't long before they were screeching down towards the Earth again, flying above Diagon, and Knockturn, and then finally: into Unterlondon itself.

The entrance spilled out into a massive subterranean cave that sprawled out as big as Greater London above, with an equal amount of buildings and structures within. The tunnel of course continued, into a second layer of cave: Lower Unterlondon. And, beneath that, the London Mines, where thousands of Muggle slaves lived and scraped out the gemstones near the bedrock in unbearable heat. Large, stone pillars held the London above up. Here, the sky was as clogged as the outside, only with more creatures than people. The air was cold and stale, unmoving. The only part that ever saw the natural sun was the entrance tunnel. The rest was illuminated by the pillars, each which housed an over-powerful lighthouse. There were ten in total.

Where the Ministry would've been on the ground, here it was as well, as an upside-down pyramid just as large, attached to the ceiling. Unlike the top pyramid, it glowed a dull red, shining near-half of the underworld in its glimmering shade. She'd never been in the lower parts of the Ministry, even when working there. There was no entrance to it, far as she could tell. But she knew, from rumours, that this was where the Ministry housed the Department of Mysteries, with its Unspeakables. Which reminded her-she needed to get tea with Luna sometime.

"Em," Ron said, breaking their conversation. Emily looked at him, and he pointed at the twisted metal structure. "Warlock's Bosom. Griphook is in inside."

As if on cue, the Bus dropped and stopped suddenly. Now on the ground, they left the Bus behind, and it shot up with yet another bang. Emily and Ron shared a look before making their way inside.

The Warlock's Bosom, as the name suggested, was a whorehouse. If it wasn't the name that gave it away, it'd have to be the scantily-clad, or sometimes not even clad at all Muggle women, walking around. The sounds also gave it away: moans of pleasure, of pain, and screams of joy. It had it all. There weren't just Muggle women either. There were men too, Goblins, and at least one shapeshifter. The patrons were all of an older variety: Ministry officials just off their shift, judging by their robes.

Emily knew the type from her short stint in the pyramid. These were all marriage-dissatisfied men, or men looking to take advantage of the gracious allowance for birthing a Magical child. It was enough gold that had she the tools to do it, or the wherewithal to make them, she could see herself doing it. Not that it didn't disgust her; the Muggle women often had no choice. And if they ever had sex with a Muggle and birthed a Magical child? Both the male and the child would've been executed, while she would've been regaled to the birthing pens. It was a dangerous game these women played, and she envied them nothing their position.

"Where is he?" Emily asked, trying to find a snobby Goblin that looked like he owned the place.

"Dunno, just said to be here at a certain time," Ron said.

"Great. Well, c'mon, let's go a-hunting."

Their search first took them to the second floor. There, they found a hallway with a series of doors. Through the first one, a standard fair of romp going on. They continued, looking through each one. One, they saw a dementor standing over a high-ranking Auror as he ploughed through a Muggle girl. Another, they saw a Veela dancing, in a room with a fish jar, the little goldfish staring aptly. Neither Emily nor Ron could help themselves, drawn closer and ever closer to the Veela. A sharp crack sounded, and a faceless man appeared in front of them.

"Um, hi," Emily said, the Veela's allure broken.

The man simply gestured, and pointed them to follow. They did so, until he reached the end of the hall. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a large set of bronze keys, inserting one into the keyhole. The keyhole grew fangs and swallowed the key whole. The door swung unlocked, but Emily saw nothing but darkness. Emily and Ron both stepped forward, and saw nothing but a pit of dark in the entirety of the room. There was something at the bottom though: it looked like a bit of light.

She felt a shove, and all of a sudden, she was falling and screaming. It all happened too fast for them to cast any spells. The light rushed towards them-now a room, now a floor, now the only thing she could see-and she stopped, hovering a nose-length above the ground. And then-smack! They both crashed into the floor.

Emily rubbed her arm where she had fallen, while Ron did the same to his leg. She took a careful look around as she did. The pit above was now solid metal. In front of them was a throne of skulls and bones, a Goblin sitting there, picking at one of the skulls with his thick, dagger-like claws. There were others in the room, too. Four Muggle women, bearing the brand of Goblin-slave on their wrists. A large, bald African man stood behind them, his muscles as big as all four of them combined. Half-giant then. He wielded an axe as big as Ron. Another humanoid stood guard to the Goblin's immediate left. His face was like that of a human-squid hybrid, full of tentacles slithering about.

The Goblin gestured with a finger, his beady black eyes scanning them carefully. The human-squid stepped forward, brandishing a wizard's wand. A bevy of cursory examination spells slammed through them. Emily got up, helped by Ron. With a flick of a wrist, her wand was out, firm in her hand. Neither the squid nor other guard took notice.

"If you're looking for weapons, you're not doing a very good job," Emily said.

"They're clean," the squid said, the words slithering out of his slippery mouth, putting away his wand. Emily did the same, but kept it a shorter distance than before.

"You can never be too careful," the Goblin said. "Glamours and the like are getting better each year. You never know who could be wearing your face, Miss Potter."

"And you must be Griphook."

There was a misconception that if you greeted Goblins a certain way, you'd make them more amenable to further dealings. First, you needed to speak their name-preferably in their Gobbledegook. Name them correctly, and you could send them into a tizzy. From there, and this was crucial: you needed to give them some sort of cultural affirmation, akin to, "May your enemies explode in a fiery fireball of death and may their gold enter your ass shiny side up," or some other similar tango. Alas, Goblins hated humankind regardless of what you did or didn't do.

One rather idiotic wizard tried to even be inducted into a Goblin clan. He went around, calling himself a Goblin, until finally, he went into Gringotts one day and never came out. The Ministry launched an inquiry, but ultimately, their conclusion was that as Goblins maintained their own laws, clearly that Goblin had violated one of them. No, there was easy way out in talking to Goblins.

"That is what you humans call me, yes," Griphook said, his mouth snarling as he did. He looked at Ron. "Oh yes. I know who you are, boy. Not everyday someone takes out an automaton without dying. You've got my attention." His lips snarled into a smile.

"You know what we're capable of," Ron said. "We're good at we do. Solving problems, that is." It was clear to Emily and likely Griphook himself that Ron was a tad nervous. It was fine-Emily was near shitting bricks herself.

"Yes, problems," Griphook said. "I have no lack, of problems. Look." The wall behind him disintegrated, and Lower Unterlondon was replaced in its stead. "I own all that which you see. Everything!" He flicked his nails. The faceless man apparated before them, carrying a bundle of charred bones in a transparent bag. He tossed them in front Emily and Ron, turning his head to the side like a dog.

"Friend of yours?" Emily asked.

"One of your broods," Griphook said, leaning forward. "Wizard enforcer of mine. Decent wandwork skill. Talented with levitation-very useful spell."

"Should've practiced his shield work more, seems like," Ron said.

The attempt at humour did not affect the Goblin. "To strike at one of mine, is to strike me myself," Griphook said. "The insult is…" Griphook took a deep breath. "It must be punished."

"Who's the mark?" Emily asked.

"As it so happens, you weren't my first call. This poor sap, had tried first. You see, you live in my kingdom, you pay my taxes, simple, no? Sometimes people get that. Sometimes they don't, and then they need to be taught a lesson." Griphook stopped for a moment to summon a cigar from one of his slaves. He puffed once, letting loose a pillar of smoke. "There's this hag. Sells decent potions, better than decent ones, in fact. Lives in a hole in the lower parts. Parts I own. Parts which I bled over.

"Taxes needed to be paid, and she wasn't listening to my warnings. So I sent him," Griphook said, pointing with the smoking cigar, "to take care of the problem. He came back, looking like that."

"You want us to kill this hag?" Ron asked. It was a fair question-hags weren't easy to kill. As magical creatures went, they could throw nasty curses on par with that of an advanced wizard. Their capacity for destruction was not to be underrated either.

"No. Like I said, she brews a good potion. I want her paying her dues, and brewing for me."

"And if she doesn't pay up?" Emily asked.

"Torture her, burn her, make her squeal-I don't care, long as she lives and I get paid."

Ron looked at Emily, then back at the ever-smoking Griphook. "All right," he said. "What do we get?"

Griphook snarled even more at that question. "My loving gratitude."

Neither of them said anything, waiting for the greedy Goblin to add more to that offer.

"Do this right, and you pass your auditions. You'll work for me, and there's a lot more work that needs doing."

They again said nothing, waiting for the gold clink of galleons instead.

Griphook barked something, and the squid man stepped forward, this time conjuring a box, opening it to reveal a handful of galleons. "This first job, ten galleons each. After that, you're on payroll, with opportunities for advancement and raises."

It was more than Emily had been promised at the Ministry. Still, they held their tongues. For a Goblin to be desperate enough to talk to folks as young as them… well, he had to be pretty desperate.

"Fine! Ragnok damn you both! I'll get you a Gringotts account, 1 year, no paid fees."

"Five years," Ron said, finally speaking up for them both.

"Three. And don't you dare counter four!" Griphook snarled, this time looking at Emily.

"Three and a half," she said.

He responded by putting one of the skulls in a vice-like grip. She could've sworn she heard a crack. "Three and a half years, no fees," he said. "Any questions? Good. Out!"

Before Ron and Emily could say anything, they were shot past the Goblin and his throne, tossed into the disintegrated wall showing Lower Unterlondon. They whooshed past several buildings. Behind them, the lair had already vanished amongst the sea of structures. Not wanting to trust that they'd stop before getting squished, both Ron and herself cast Arresto Momentum, skidding to a halt where the rush had been carrying them.

They arrived at a mud hut. The faint stench of Hag clung to the air: of brewing potions and arcane spells. Graffitied on the wall was the Hag symbol: a white hand with black fingers.

This was it.

"So, wands blazing or diplomatic?" Ron asked.

Emily rolled her eyes at him. "Let's try avoid duelling an accursed hag if we can. Diplomacy first, and then we blast her if that doesn't work."

With their strategy set, they stepped inside.


	6. Chapter 5: The Hag

**Chapter 5: The Hag**

As hag abodes went, Emily had seen far worse. There was a faint scent of cinnamon in the air-as if the hag had been brewing something that wasn't just a disgusting potion. In fact, the whole place seemed remarkably un-haglike. There were scattered books and diagrams everywhere: even some muggle tools, like clocks and even an old machine gun. Dangling from the ceiling were the tell-tale hag charms though, twinkling and glittering with hag magic, which doubled as a powerful shield against unwanted intruders. This hag was either a nostalgic nut, or there was more to it than met the eye.

While they looked like kindly old witches, hags were anything but. Theirs was a foul breed of raven, witch, and griffins. Devised by a dark wizard several thousand years back, hags had long since found the ability to reproduce using their obtuse magic and potions. They could induce pregnancy on themselves, and the child would fester in their wombs for decades until their deaths, where they would then hatch from the belly, like a chicken's egg. As a fully formed hag, the child would then continue where her mother had left off.

They had little in the way of social skills, but frequently traded with their magical betters, as their magic was limited and diffused through centuries of potion-breeding. Which wasn't to say they weren't dangerous-their destructive magic could level an entire block if sufficiently angered enough. Their poisons were equally harmful: if infected, one would become a brain-dead follower of the hag. They were a plague and danger to society, tolerated only for their ability to brew things that wizards and witches would otherwise find impossible to do.

Not that the Ministry hadn't tried purging them. They had-sometimes employing Lord Voldemort himself against several covens. But for every felled one, another took its place. And besides, no one had ever done a full accounting of the beasts. As they loved living in swamps and otherwise dreary, mal-populated areas, the eventual conclusion resolved to be that it was impossible to fully wipe them out. And so, hag and human co-existed, sometimes uneasily, sometimes in outright warfare.

Emily hated the things. They gave witches everywhere a bad name. They were the ones that caused the witch burnings. They were the ones that birthed the Statute of Secrecy, and in the end, the Master himself. If time travel were possible, she'd kill the first one and end the infernal cycle before it could ever start. As for this hag…

The abode seemed empty. Ron pulled back some coverings on a table, and they both saw potion preparations scattered about. Emily walked over and picked over them. She'd been one of Slughorn's favorites her seven years at Hogwarts. She could brew a mean potion with the rest of them, and would've been a master potioneer, had all the good available apprenticeships not been sealed behind a thick Ministry wall, where her name did her negative favours.

"What'd you reckon she was brewing?" Ron asked. Unlike her, he didn't share her enthusiasm for the mystic arts.

She thumbed over the ingredients closer, stretching out the marks on some of the bottles. "Lacewing flies," she said, pushing the bottle away. Picking up a discarded leech corpse, she added, "Leeches." She sniffed at another bit of dust. "It can't be… bicorn horn? And this… boomslang skin."

"What does it mean?" Ron asked.

"She was brewing-"

"None of your business," a sharp, nasally voice said behind them.

They turned around sharply, and saw themselves staring face-to-face with the hag in question. She looked like a standard hag, well enough: small, greyish eyes, dragged and stretched skin, back bent over backwards, feathers protruding from her pores, and long, dagger like claws. Her teeth were like knives by themselves, her tongue licking through them. To their credit, they didn't immediately draw their wands and start casting-though Emily could personally feel the itch.

"I don't like folks rummaging through my things," the hag said.

"Where the hell did you come from?" Ron asked.

"Upstairs. Even us hags need rest, from time."

"You're well-spoken for one," Emily said.

"Bah! What do you humans know of hags?"

"Quite a bit, actually. But I don't personally care all that much. You know why we're here?"

The hag snorted. "You want something. They all do. That's all you purebloods ever want. This knick, that knack."

"I'm not a pureblood," Emily said. "Well, he is. But he can't help it."

The hag snorted again. "So, what'll it be? Need something to help getting it up at night, boy? Something to cure the boils, girl?"

Emily crossed her arms, trying to not to seem too put off by the loud-mouthed hag. "You seem to be doing well for yourself."

"I get by."

"You know who owns this part of town?"

"Some Ministry knob," the hag said, waving her arm.

"Griphook. Y'know? The Goblin whose enforcer you burnt to a crisp."

The hag stood up straight. Well, that was weird. Hag spines made it physically impossible to stand up straight. Ever. Emily uncrossed her arms. With a glance to Ron, she saw him get in a comfortable battle position. Great.

"I won't be extorted, not by a Goblin, not by you," the hag said.

Emily raised a cautious hand up, looking at the hag charms dangling from the ceiling. With a simple finite, she'd disable the home field advantage. "We're not here to extort you."

"You're not?" the hag said.

"We're not?" Ron said.

"Look!" Emily said. "You're running a very successful potion business. All Griphook wants is in."

"I'm just a simple hag, minding her business."

"I've never seen a hag brew Polyjuice before," Emily said.

It was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. The hag, already unnaturally standing up straight, leaped backwards and knocked over a table. Emily took the brief respite to cast the finite on the charms and found something strange in them as she did. They had no magic. They were just there for show. Ron, with his wand already out, set about casting a defensive shield, clearly ready for a fireball. The hag instead curved herself over the table, wand in hand, and launched a cutting curse.

Ron barely side-stepped the curse before it slashed straight through his shield. "A wand!" he said.

"I know! Ask questions later!'

Trying to block out of her mind how hags just simply, literally, could not ever never use wands, Emily instead cast a reducto at the table. Splinters went up everywhere, but the hag (was it even a hag?) had already jumped over it, and launched a colourful variety of stunners, hexes, and some minor curses. She was fighting like a witch.

Emily dispelled some of the oncoming fire, redirected a few others, and dodged the rest. Ron, having regained his footing, transfigured a nearby cauldron into a cannonball and launched it towards the hag. The hag simply fell forward, the ball barely missing her, before continuing straight towards Ron. Ron destroyed just in time, but before he could cast again, the hag had already fired a red stunner at him. Emily just barely deflected it with a hasty shield over her own.

And the hag had already refocused on her. It cast some spell, missing Emily entirely, aiming instead directly above her head. She was about to cast a powerful banisher when warm, black liquid splashed her head. Oil, she realized in a panic as the hag fired a simple flame charm at her.

Fire leapt all over her, covering her entire body. At least she was unharmed-casting the flame-freezing charm just in time. It wasn't powerful enough against cursed fire, but thankfully, it was just the normal variety. Extracting the fire and oil into a malice-shaped orb was easy enough-and with her vision clear, she could see Ron and the hag continue a spellfire duel.

Emily launched the fireball just as Ron cast a piercing shadow. Between burning and having her skin flayed, it looked as if the hag preferred the flames, as the shadow was quickly dealt with and the fireball collapsed onto the hag. It screeched, in a very human-like voice. Emily launched quick Expelliarmus, and seeing the wand fly towards her, caught it in a triumphant sweep. Ron meanwhile removed the flames with a casual flick. Before the hag could do anymore damage, Emily cast Incarcerous and chains sprung out from the ether and latched themselves all over the hag.

"Bloody hell," Ron said, panting. "One mean hag."

Emily wiped the sweat from her brow. "Revelio," Emily cast, twisting her wand as she did.

The hag started changing immediately, the glamour vanishing with a powerful glow of magic. The wisps of rooty hair disappeared, replaced instead with a mangy bush, kept tidy by a ponytail. The feathers, the drawn skin, the teeth, the fingers: all of it went away. Instead, the hag became very human-like, very quickly. Even the clothes-nothing more than rags, were replaced with what one might consider muggle wear-pants and a white shirt. The woman-probably not much older than herself-huffed an angry blast of hot air, shifting the rogue strands of hair away from her.

"Fucking hell," Ron said.

Emily knelt down to face-level with the woman. "I'm going to ask you one question: why?"

"I don't have to tell you anything," the woman spat.

"Ron, you ever see a witch wanting to pass as a hag?"

"Master as my witness, never."

"Colour us surprised then, when we see a witch pretending to be a hag, then," Emily said, finishing for him. "Look at where you are. How you got there." Emily pointed the witch's own wand at her. "Explain. Quickly."

The witch huffed once more, but this time, looked somber, staring down at the ground. "Trying to keep a low profile."

"As a hag?"

"Better than this face."

"It's not a bad face," Ron said. Emily shot him a death glare. "Right."

"You're a criminal then."

"You could say that," the hag-turned-witch said.

"Wait…" Ron said. "I know you! Yeah, yeah, your face! You're on some wanted posters, for theft and Master knows what else."

Emily hadn't seen the same posters. "What's her name?"

"Hermyown something or other," he said.

"It's Hermione," the witch clarified.

"Well Hermione something or other, I'm afraid I got bad news for you," Emily said. She turned to Ron. "We'll get the gold for Griphook, and then we'll take her to the Ministry for the bounty." Ron nodded.

"Wait!" Hermione said. "You can't."

"Are you seriously telling what two well-armed people, one of whom disarmed your wand, mind you, what they can and can't do."

"They'll kill me."

"Not our problem."

Hermione bit her lip as Emily readied her wand to cast a bevy of charms: full body bind, stunner, and muffliato, in that order. "I'm a Mudblood," Hermione said before the first spell could shoot out.

"You're a what?" Emily said.

"A Mudblood."

She looked at the wand in her hand. There was a pause, a hesitation.

"Impossible," Ron said. "No way a Mudblood survives long enough to learn magic, much less survive directly under the nose of the Ministry."

"Why?" Hermione said. "Why would I lie about that? Even telling you is a death sentence."

Mudbloods, or those with magical talent but not born from magical blood, were highly illegal. The theory went, magic had to come from somewhere. Halfbloods-those who had either at most one direct magical parent, or a magical great-grandparent at worst, got it from their blood. Purebloods the same: they just got it from both their parents. Mudbloods however, were supposed to be an aberration of nature. When a Mudblood was found, the father was killed, the mother sent to the breeding pens, and the child burnt alive on the Ministry steps. It wasn't something you bragged openly about.

But… Emily knew it was possible to hide blood status, and magical power from the Ministry's watchful gaze. Her own mother was testament to that.

"How?" Emily asked.

"The Ministry doesn't kill all Mudbloods that are born. Some are… experimented on."

"You got away, then. Turned to a life of crime to survive? Makes sense." Hermione's lack of response confirmed what she suspected. "Polyjuice, huh? That's a smart brew. Who taught you?"

"Myself."

Emily was inclined to believe her. Pulling off a full-time glamour and lie about being a hag wasn't easy.

"Em-" Ron said.

"We're not turning her into the Ministry to be killed!" Emily said.

"You're not?" Hermione asked, as if not believing it herself.

Ron nodded, an understanding glimmering in his eyes. "I know. But we've still a job to do."

Emily pinched the bridge of her nose. "Listen, Hermione, I don't want to hurt you. To be fair, you did cast some pretty nasty spells at us. In normal circumstances, you'd be feet first into a Ministry cell. But…"

"You knew someone who was a Mudblood," Hermione said. Emily didn't respond. "I didn't choose to be born this way. Magic is such a blighted curse."

"I know," Emily said. "Look, we still got Griphook to deal with. Just give us whatever Galleons you have, plus your word that you'll brew him some potions from time to time."

"I don't have any Galleons left," Hermione said. When she saw Emily and Ron's disbelieving glare, she followed it up. "Look, Polyjuice ingredients aren't cheap. I had to spend almost everything I had to make a brew."

"What are you planning on using it for?" Ron asked.

"She's going to steal something, obviously," Emily said.

As potions went, there were few more useful than Polyjuice. Unlike transfiguration or glamours, they couldn't be dispelled by anything. For an hour-you became the person you were trying to copy: voice, walk, even a bit of their personality. The possibilities were endless: you could become Minister Malfoy if you had one of his golden locks. Or even the Master himself. It was the perfect crime. Become the right person, and all of a sudden, all the doors opened up for you. Hermione's glare confirmed what she had suspected.

"We could give Griphook the Polyjuice, should be sufficient," Ron said. Polyjuice was extremely expensive and worth far more than what Hermione the hag owed him.

"I'm not-"

Emily cast a privacy charm and looked directly at Ron, who looked back at her, when he noticed Hermione's voice suddenly silenced. "We could do that."

"We should, Em. I don't want to get on a Goblin's bad side."

"Or," Emily said, continuing, ignoring his warning, "we could use the Polyjuice."

"To steal something ourselves?" She nodded. "Are you mad?"

"It's the big break we've always wanted Ron. You know how hard Polyjuice is to brew, to even get the ingredients for? In Hogwarts, only person who had access to it was Snape, and even he couldn't access it without direct written approval from the Minister himself."

"I know… but what would we even steal?"

They both looked back at Hermione, then back at each other. "Seems like she had a plan," Emily said. "We team up with her, she can pay the hag's debt, then we go our separate ways."

"Team up with her? You are mad! Cavorting with Mudbloods is the death sentence." Ron immediately bit his lips. "Sorry. Didn't mean it like that."

Emily took a deep breath. "It's alright. So, are you in?"

Ron scoffed, then nodded. "Lord knows you'll go ahead and do it anyways. Might as well join in, keep you from doing anything too stupid. Potter, you're one day going to be the death of me." She smiled.

Uncasting the privacy charm, Hermione continued mid-sentence, "-and even if you did give Griphook Polyjuice, what would he use it for?"

"He's not going to use the Polyjuice," Emily said.

"He's a Goblin, it won't-oh," Hermione said. "If not him, then who?"

Emily dispelled the chains, then handed Hermione her wand back, handle-first. If there a time to stun or kill her, it'd be now. Instead, Hermione took the wand in rapt silence-clearly stunned herself.

"We are."


	7. Chapter 6: Plots, Plans, and Potions

**Chapter 6: Plots, Plans, and Potions**

* * *

"You're insane," Hermione said as soon as the stun of Emily's offer wore off. Her wand, though, still remained low.

"I've been told that."

"What makes you think I want you-that I need you? Besides, I don't even know your names!"

"Emily Potter," Emily said.

"Ron Weasley, at your service," Ron said.

"Look-you're smart," Emily said. Hermione shifted around a bit. "You've got more than enough for three polyjuice doses, by my count."

"Four, actually."

"Are you really going to pull off four, high-profile heists by yourself?" Hermione shook her head. "Here's our offer then: we help you rob whichever nob you're planning on robbing. We get a slice of the pull each, and you get enough to pay the Goblin off and we then go our separate ways."

"Why would I need to pay that greedy bastard off?"

"He knows where you live. And while your disguise is clever enough, he'd find out, even if you burnt this place to a crisp. Goblins are resourceful like that. And if he found out you were a Mudblood? Death would be the best-case scenario. Just pay him through us after the job and we'll make sure he's off your back."

Hermione paused, not responding. It looked as if half of her wanted to continue the duel. The other half, though, won out. "As it happens, the job I was planning would require at least one other. Two for a maximum chance of success."

"You already had someone in mind?" Ron asked.

Hermione shook her head. "I'd have to imperius someone. Risky, as you both should know."

While the imperius curse was extremely powerful, able to transform anyone into an unwilling slave, it did have its fair share of limitations and issues. Mainly, resisting it was possible, especially to those trained as Occlumens or those who were exposed to mind magic in the past. It could also be defeated by a particularly powerful dispelling charm-a similar enchantment existed in the entrance of Hogwarts and the Ministry. There were of course other spells, but those also had their own drawbacks. Better instead to have willing co-conspirators.

"Well, you can now you have us," Emily said.

"You don't even know me," Hermione said. "And I don't know I can trust you."

"Trust in words is overrated. Trust actions. I gave you back your wand when the law says you should be burnt alive. As for you… you're right; I don't know you. I just know you're a highly talented witch playing the part of a hag who can cook Polyjuice by herself. I trust your ability. Plus, you have a plan. That's more than Ron and me have ever had."

"Why even do this? If caught, you're facing death."

Emily shrugged. "Runs in the family." When Hermione raised her eyebrow, she added, "My parents were members of the Order. Needless to say, rebellious nature is in my blood."

"Need the gold," Ron said, shrugging. "I'd rather do one job and be done versus a dozen jobs for a Goblin, get dirt pay, and end up getting shanked by a random automaton again."

"Again?" Hermione asked.

"Long story."

"Well," Hermione said. "You're both crazy. And magically capable. I'm going to regret this. But alright. If you want in, you're in." There was a moment of silence. "Magical oath?"

"No!" Ron said. "My ass still chafes every time I call Fred George."

"Big family," Emily said.

Hermione nodded. "Fine. Betray me though, and you'll die to regret it. How do you want to split it? What we make, that is?"

Emily shrugged. "40 for you, since it's your plan and your potion. Then thirty for both me and Ron."

"Sounds fair. It should be more than enough."

With the situation defused, they lowered their wands. They even helped Hermione spruce the place up, repairing the damage they caused with their curses. There was little in the way of apology from either party, but at least there was peace. As they went, Hermione told them more about her hag scam.

"Most hag potions are just normal potions," she said. "Some require a hag's touch, but that's a small minority. No, most of the time, I could make it myself."

"And if you couldn't?" Ron asked.

"I'd buy one from a real hag, of course. Most people give a lot more to Hags in terms of galleons than most small potionmakers. Must be the destructive magic they can cast. It's quite lucrative, actually."

They finished cleaning everything a short while later, moving over to a set of transfigured seats. As they did, Hermione danced a set of glasses over, and sat them down on the table in front of them.

"Tea, gentlemen? I've also got firewhiskey, beer, wine, and Niffler milk."

"Tea," they said at the same time.

The glasses filled themselves, the liquid coming seemingly from nowhere. Hermione's own glass filled with beer, which she chugged half the glass of. As she put it down again, the glass filled itself once more. Emily took a sip of the tea-simple black, with a tiny trace of energy potion; powerful enough to leave her up the whole night if she drank it all down.

"So, who are we robbing?" Ron asked.

Hermione set her glass down. "A rich socialite playboy." She waved her hand. "You might know his sister, though. Sirius Black." Emily and Ron shared a look. "You know him?"

"You could say that."

"Bastard killed my parents," Emily said.

It was close enough to the truth. In the early 80s, Dumbledore's resistance group, the Order of the Phoenix, was on the losing side. After 30 years since the War was lost, they were at the end of their ropes. Raids, assassinations, and mass executions were ramping up. Two young recruits rose through the ranks to become Dumbledore's chief lieutenants; her parents: James and Lily Potter.

Emily never knew much about her parents. What little she knew came from propaganda; the notion that her parents had willingly spread dragonpox in pureblood orphanages or bred willingly with demons was too much for her to believe. But she did pick up a few things, over the years: that they were madly in love, and that they did have a single child, whom they also loved.

After a devastating defeat, James and Lily went into hiding, using the Fidelius charm to vanish from the world. There she and her parents would've remained for eternity, had Sirius Black not revealed the secret to Lord Voldemort, who in turn murdered her parents. Sirius had been James' best friend at Hogwarts and also a chief member of the resistance. In return for her father's love, he returned only with blood. He even killed Peter Pettigrew, their other mutual best friend, in cold blood, in the middle of the street.

For his loyalty to Voldemort and the regime, Sirius was regaled with rewards and titles. The Black name, already famous, soared to new heights. His sister climbed through Auror ranks. He meanwhile drank and whored his way through London.

Her entire time in Hogwarts, she wanted to kill him. She even got as far as the street of his townhouse, before a tagteam of Ron and Neville stopped her. She was already on short notice with her last name. Had she gone through with it, she would definitely be dead. Now, though...

"No," Hermione said, as if reading her mind. "You can't."

"Why the bloody hell not?" Emily asked.

"First, it's my Polyjuice, and you're not using it for a murder revenge fantasy. Second, the plan hinges on us getting in and out without detection or making too much noise. Black isn't in government, and his sister might actually thank us for doing him in. But you can bet she'd still curse us dead and hunt us down. If you can't accept that, then leave."

"Em-" Ron said.

"You have no idea how long I've been wanting to take a shot at him."

"I can imagine," Hermione said. "You think you're the only one who hasn't lost family to this maddening regime? I could use Polyjuice to kill the Minister if I wanted. Walk right into his office as his wife and curse him. It wouldn't change a thing. I would be dead in a week. My parents would still be dead. Malfoy would be replaced by another-Bellatrix, my guess. And the machine will still churn. You've made it to adulthood, so I'm assuming you've learned the first lesson."

"Which is?"

"Survive. No matter the cost or difficulty. You know this. Your parents fought and died."

"I'm not a coward."

"You're a survivor."

Emily took a deep breath. Hermione was right, in the end. Sirius Black deserved to die, as did the rest of the whole rotted regime. But if she went after him, her parents would've died for nothing. This way, she could hurt Black where he lived: taking his ill-begot gains. That revenge would have to do, for the time being.

"Fine," Emily said. "I won't kill him. But what are we stealing?"

Hermione shrugged. "I've never been inside his place. But he's got to be loaded. We're talking ancient paintings, rare potions and books, enchantments, jewels, to say nothing of the sheer galleons."

"Wouldn't those be in Gringotts?" Emily asked.

Hermione shook her head. "A few years back I was a cocktail waitress for a lesser Auror. I overheard, in no uncertain terms, how the wealthiest hoard wealth outside of the bank. No trust in the Goblins. They of course still have accounts, as that allows them access to loans, but their true wealth is kept far out of Goblin hands."

"Makes sense," Ron said. "My brother, Bill, works for them. They're always on about getting more stuff from Wizards."

"So, we just waltz in, steal whatever's not nailed down, and walk out?" Emily asked.

"Pretty much," Hermione said.

"We're all flaming mad," Ron said.

"Surely you have more than that," Emily said. "What about wards? Defences? Guards?"

Hermione smiled, and started telling her plan. By nightfall, Emily was increasingly convinced that the plan, while still absolutely insane, could just work. They'd have to move in three nights, when Black's next big affair would be, which left them precious little time to do last minute recon and nab the genetic material they needed to become carbon copies, but still. It could work.

"So, let's recap," Hermione said as the night was drawing to a close. "Emily and I will Polyjuice as two squib socialites, while Ron is on backup and support."

Emily nodded at the first bit, recalling the intel. Sirius Black was a playboy: he loved sex as much as a thirsty man loved water. Even she had heard of his exploits; a lesser man, with a lesser sister, would already be dead. Once, he had slept with a Veela matriarch's wife. The scandal rocked the French government. Another time, he had cajoled the pants off of the American Minister's brother; again, more scandal, more resignations. His parties were tales of legend: debauched spectacles of raucous orgies. Even Slughorn, partier that he was, once came back from a Black party in the 3rd year and limped for an entire month.

The way in was fairly simple then: take the faces of two squibs known (thanks to the society pages) to frequent Black's parties. While Hermione and her were pretty enough to show up on their accord without Polyjuice, neither were really an option: Hermione's face was worth a thousand galleons for capture, and Emily looked like her parents too much; her dad's hair and her mum's eyes, according to what those who knew them said. Plus, this way, Emily wouldn't be potentially pinned on a major theft.

The two marks were the typical socialites prevalent in the upper class: daughters of powerful Ministry officials, half-blooded, yet unfortunate enough to be squibs. With their ounce of magical blood, they had at least two generations before a new wizard or witch born from them would be considered mudblood-if they married Muggle. Their jobs and lives were simple, then: to breed as often as possible. If the child growing in their belly didn't have magic, they'd just abort it and try again. They were both in their mid-20s: Clarissa von Ribbentrop and Melania Clarke, and beyond beautiful.

They'd been attending Black's parties for half a year now, but still had no child (confirmed by Hermione, who had scouted a few weeks back). Doubtless there was a great flirtatious back-and-forth, but no real action as of yet. While Hermione could've gone in as just one, she was afraid that Black would've just been focused on her as she would be alone; no time to sneak off and rob him. With two people, they'd be able to play him off the other, swapping as needed to keep his attention distracted.

Ron, lucky Ron, would be on backup support and helping reroute any anti-thievery wards. While they did have enough Polyjuice, they all agreed to save the other two doses, just in case. And besides-Ron couldn't go as himself. Black apparently preferred older, huskier men.

"I'm not having sex with the man," Emily said. They had already argued and belaboured the point.

"Neither of us are," Hermione said. "Believe me, I don't want that dog's dick anywhere near me."

"It's just an hour anyways, not like much could happen," Ron said.

Hermione and Emily stared at Ron, their glare cutting through the air.

"Well, I'm going to go," Emily said. "See ya tomorrow?" Hermione nodded; they had agreed to tackle the socialites tomorrow.

"I'll get to work on the wards," Ron said. "Any issues, I'll call you."

"Sounds good," Emily said.

Hermione stuck out her hand. Emily took it and shook it. "Thank you," she said, smiling. It looked pretty. There were little enough reasons to smile nowadays.

"We're in this together now, through thick and death," Emily said. She shared a look and nod with Ron. "Bye."

And with a twist and a crack, she was gone.


	8. Chapter 7: The Twin Socialites

**Chapter 7: The Twin Socialites**

The tight squeeze of apparation vanished as Emily reappeared in front of the Pillar of Truth. When she first learned apparation, she remembered throwing up her lunch all over the Great Hall. However, it was much like riding a broom: you only got better with time and practice. And once you learned, it was harder even to unlearn it. She looked up at the Pillar, shining above her in the midday sun. Hermione had yet to arrive-Emily had arrived a few minutes early.

Not for the first time, Emily thought the Pillar would've been better named the Obelisk of Truth. Cast in pure marble, embossed with a magical sheen, it stood proud on the bank of the Thames as one of the entry points of the Whitehall sector: Malfoy Bridge stood beside it, connecting either side of the Thames. It was as central a location as one could pick, without going to the Ministry Pyramid itself. Even so-Emily typically had little reason to frequent the area in the past year.

Here was where the top of the top lived. Rows of fancy, magical apartments, each more magnificent than the last, stood astride one another. It was even fancier than Diagon-each row of apartments was a veritable mansion. The truly powerful lived here: all the Deputy Undersecretarys, all the Wizengamot Warlocks and Sorceresses, all the foreign dignitaries, all of the Sacred 28-basically, if you had any iota of power, you lived here.

Emily might've lived here herself, if decades of work in a dead-end job could wipe away her family's name. In another life, she'd have married some other nameless bureaucrat, and had a boring government job, with boring government-approved children. Then those kids would've had kids, and maybe then, the shame would've been wiped away enough to where she could actually have a hovel worth showing off. Alas, patience was never her chief strength.

Emily leaned against the Pillar, still waiting. There were eleven other Pillars, each representing one of the Master's Spheres. To hear the Ministry's spinmeisters talk of it: 'the Spheres are the world, and the Pillars the bastions which hold up the world'. Not literally, of course. Each country had their own set of Pillars-nothing more than symbolism for an otherwise faraway Master. The Pillar of Truth, currently serving as her backrest, represented the Sphere of Truth, which had a monopoly on the truth, as the Master depicted it. All newspapers, all records of history, all wireless broadcasts, all were controlled by this sole Sphere.

Other Pillars stood in clear view: the Pillar of Surplus, which was similar to the Pillar of Truth except that that one stood in the centre of a fountain spewing endless, enchanted water. Surplus controlled all production and econoplans, and were responsible for feeding the billions of people on the Earth. The water was enchanted to fill one's appetite-alas, it had zero nutritional value. Beyond Surplus stood Ancient Knowledge: black-carved obsidian gleaming bright in the daylight. They ran the study of ancient magic, seeking to gleam long-forgotten spells and resurrect them for the current age. Barely visible beyond that was Health: a snake coiled on a sepulchre-white obelisk, a stone eagle standing proud atop it. Like Surplus, it too stood in the centre of a fountain-this one spewing feel-good water. It didn't actually heal any wounds, but that it tasted great and gave one a silly high couldn't be discounted.

There were others, too, beyond where she could see. Law, of course, headed by Igor Karkaroff. Nations, representing the Ministries. Creatures, for the non-sentient beings. Internal Affairs, for the actual sentient beings. Labour had the slave labour, while Transportation was likewise revealed by its name. Hallows ran the state cult and worship of the Master. By far the opaquest one was Mysteries, though. Like the English Ministry's own Department of Mysteries, no one knew what the Sphere of Mysteries did. This was represented in their Pillar: a distorted, rippling, vanishing, and teleporting piece of abstract obelisk.

Sometimes it would just be a half-an-obelisk, the edges blurred and waving around. Other times it'd show up half embedded in a building a few hundred miles away, the distortion even affecting the area around it. Touching it was said to drive one mad. Looking too long at it could cause one to see beyond the standard human spectrum. As it was, everyone, even Aurors, avoided the Mystery pillar. When Hermione had suggested that as a meetup location, at least Emily could take comfort in knowing she had found a kindred insane spirit. Thankfully, Emily had convinced her otherwise.

She'd been standing up against Truth for at least ten minutes now-still no Hermione. Emily scrunched her face over the now-dying light. Hermione should've been here now. She didn't trust the frazzled-haired witch, but she thought that at least she'd be punctual.

"'cuse me," a bald, tanned woman said as she parted from the passing walking crowd and walked up to Emily. She was middle-aged, dressed in a thick robe, with deep creases in her skin. "You've got the time?"

"Uhh…" Emily said, casting a quick wandless _tempus_ , "quarter past 12."

"Sorry I'm late," the opposing witch said. "Had to get a new face."

Emily looked at the woman again. "Hermione?"

The woman put a finger to her lips. "I'd be here sooner, trust me." Emily could hear it now-her tell-tale voice and accent. Impressive. Even on close inspection, whatever spell Hermione was using would be hard to detect.

"I forgive you. Y'know what they say. A witch is never late nor early. She arrives precisely when she means to." She nodded once at Hermione. "That a glamour?"

Hermione shook her head. "Those are concentration-intensive to upkeep without a rune or other enchanted item. And way too easily broken by Auror spells."

"So…" Emily had seen the real Hermione; she definitely did not look Iike this.

"It's a face, like I said."

"Like an actual face?"

"Is there any other type?" Emily's reaction was one dual horror and disgust. At which, Hermione took a deep breath. "I cleaned it! And getting a face mould is far easier and cheaper."

"Whose face?"

"Someone's," Hermione shrugged. "A Muggle, in Unterlondon. One of the many forgotten corpses in the darker corners. Not like she needed it anyways, being dead and all. And no, I didn't kill her."

Emily shook her head. "You're scary, you know that?"

"I've been told I'm equal parts scary and brilliant."

"Why do we even need the Polyjuice?" Emily asked.

"Because, all it takes is one good dispel and the face decomposes and falls off. Polyjuice doesn't have the same restriction."

Emily knew that, had known that before she asked. Seeing someone wear a living face mask tended to off-put her by a bit. She supposed living as a marked criminal took one to unseen heights; what had her own mother gone through to escape the Ministry? She shuddered, deciding not to overly ponder it.

"So, what's the plan?" Emily asked.

Hermione waved her over as she started walking towards the apartments across the street. "Clarissa von Ribbentrop and Melania Clarke are roommates; they share a flat within the Whitetree complex-gated apartment complex. During the day, they stay at home; at night, they attend one of the dozen parties they get invited to. Sometimes they visit the Ministry; their respective fathers do work there after all. Sometimes they go on holiday. But today, right now, they're here."

"How'd you learn all this?" Emily asked.

"Magic!" At Emily's eye roll, Hermione said, "Again, I've been planning this job for months. I've done my homework. Also, Clarissa writes everything down. Including schedules."

"Useful. So, rules of engagement?" Emily wouldn't care much about killing either socialite, or cursing them senseless.

"As much as I'd like to see them both dead, nothing more than stunners," Hermione said. "We can't risk a trail. So, we'll stun them, read their memories, and then rewrite them."

"Read? I thought Polyjuice allowed you to assimilate the person's memories?"

"The potion's powerful, but not foolproof. We need to be sure."

As Hermione finished talking, they reached the iron-wrought gate of Whitetree. Beyond, a set of steps leading to the internal lobby, past bronze-gold doors. There were no elevators or stairs visible.

The iron gate opened with a simple swish and murmured _Alohomora_ from Hermione ("Occam's razor," the other witch had whispered), and then the two were walking up the stairs, through the door and into the lobby. A single red-suited man sat behind an ornate red-brown desk, casually flipping through the Prophet while a nearby orb replayed last week's Quidditch. His eyes were drooping low, as if he were barely interested in his job or anything going on around him. The door behind them clinked shut.

Hermione and Emily walked up to the man, who only then peered beyond the brim of his paper to see them both approach. With a raised eyebrow, he put the paper down. His gold-tinted name tag red: 'Josiah', and without any other clear mark or tell, Emily had to guess that this was a squib. She stole a glance at Hermione, who laid one of her hands on the desk, the other gripping her wand tight behind her back.

"You residents?" the man said.

"Heavens no!" Hermione said, her accent taking on a sudden affectation. "I'm here to see the Christophs."

"Right then," the man yawned. "I'll need to ring them up, and then you both need to sign in." He was about to place his hand on the wireless dispatcher, when, all of a sudden, a cloud of grey energy struck him the forehead, before dissipating. Josiah blinked twice, then looked at the dispatcher in hand, clearly _confunded_ beyond reason.

"Oh, you already called up, and they said it was fine," Hermione said.

Josiah shrugged, placing the dispatcher down, and then slid over a clipboard. Hermione bent over first, and scribbled something with a quill. After that, she backed away, letting Emily do the same. She glanced at Josiah, who clearly didn't know if he was here or there or anywhere. There was little reason in signing any name, but Emily figured why not at least see what her fellow witch had written. Beneath the row of other names, Hermione had scribbled 'A. Dumbledore'. Emily smirked, adding her own 'G. Grindelwald' below hers.

With that done, Josiah waved them by, nearly swatting the orb down in the process. With a roll of her eyes, she joined Hermione back near the centre of the lobby. "I don't see an elevator," Emily said. "Or floo, for that matter. How are we-"

Her question was cut off mid-phrase as she and Hermione were both lurched upwards, twisting inside and out, flurrying through a temporal time-space where nothing and everything existed simultaneously. Faster than the speed of light yet slower than molasses, they spun, time itself breaking and reshaping into an infinite orgy of splintered realities-and then-Emily was back, collapsed on the floor.

With a cough, she righted herself, standing up straight. "I hate portkeys," she said. Hermione fared far better, already standing. "Where are we?" she asked, taking a look around. As far as she could tell, they were in an opulent hallway, filled with moving paintings, patrolling statues, dancing chandeliers. Several doors stood on either side of the hallway, each doubtless leading to an apartment. Above the one where they had landed near: the name Christoff.

"You've never portkeyed before?" Hermione asked, already moving past this door.

"I have, it's just that I hate it with a burning passion."

Hermione scoffed. "And here I thought I was the uneducated. To answer your question, we landed near our target. We're a short walk away."

Emily huffed, and pushed her legs to walk beside Hermione. "They have no guards, right?"

Hermione shook her head. "Their father is important, but not that important."

Emily nodded. "Hopefully Ron is having as good a time as we are." Taking down centuries-long runes and wards in a short time was extremely difficult. But he had a knack of logical, methodical thinking. If there was anyone suited for the task, it was him. Still, she didn't envy him at all.

"I've been wondering… You and him?"

"What?" Emily asked, confused for a minute before realizing. "Oh. No. Lord, no. Sweet baby dragons no. He's like a brother to me."

"Does he know that?"

"Duh. Ron and I have been best friends since we were wee babes. Why? Are you looking passionately at our dashing Weasley?"

"I-What? No! I was just curious, is all. Two, same-age young adults, braving life together, through thick and thin. It drives a girl curious."

"Right," Emily said. "Well, if it's just curiosity, I can say for certain that Ron is extremely, woefully single." _Minus the encounter with Buttstrode two nights ago_ , she added to herself.

They proceeded down the hallway in relative silence after that. Hermione stopped in front of a greenish-stone door, inlaid with embossed rubies. Like the lower gate, it opened with yet another First-Year spell. Honestly, Emily felt offended at the whole thing. With another flourished upward wand flick, the door swung open.

Brilliant, bright beams temporarily blinded her. By instinct, Emily had already snapped her wand to her hand, ready to launch a caustic ballast of curses. Instead, as her vision cleared, she noticed the beam of light was just opulent gold glinting on surfaces. There was wealth, there was gaudy wealth, and then… there was this.

They had entered what appeared to be the main foyer. A fountain with an enchanted, golden statute of a Spartan warrior stood in the centre, his armour bleeding red. The ceiling was an unmoving painting: one of a bearded white man surrounded by angels, touching another man's finger on the ground. At the far opposite side lay a magographic window: depicting an open beach rather than the typical London smog. A moving staircase to the far right, changing even now, like the one in Hogwarts; a kitchen to the left, the dishes being automagically cleaned and new dishes prepped.

They took a careful step forward: neither of the marks were visible. The mirrored marble floor echoed each foot-crash throughout the cavern-like room. Emily took a closer look at the blood in the fountain. There was a strange glint to it; she'd hunted enough vampires to know what blood looked like… and tasted like. Reaching her pinkie out, she let a little pool on the skin before sticking it in her mouth. She smacked her lips.

"Wine," she said to Hermione. The other witch rolled her eyes.

"So, this is how the upper echelon lives like," Hermione said.

"They're not even witches, right? This is insane." Emily nodded to the countertop, where an entire pig was being sliced. "Hiring wizards to do the enchantments for all that would cost more than most people could afford. And a full pig? You couldn't afford it even if you hoarded ration cards your whole life."

"I know," Hermione said.

She turned to her. "Why not just rob these gits? There's got to be enough wealth here to make a pretty sickle."

Hermione shook her head. "This is small potatoes." Before Emily could respond, she continued. "True wealth is power, and true power is magic. Sure, Black's gems and other gold would make us just about as healthy as all this. But the spells he has, the arcane knowledge within his vaults… that'd be priceless. And no, we can't rob the girls. No trail, remember?"

Emily huffed. "Fine. Where are they anyways?"

"Hey, are you guys the delivery?" a tiny voice chirped.

Emily and Hermione spun towards it, their wands both aimed and ready. A tall, probably as tall as six feet, blonde woman in a silk gown stood before them. She was flawless: her hair perfectly straight, her skin shining like whitened alabaster, her legs flawlessly proportioned, her eyes a beautiful azure, her nails trimmed and 'cured. Emily could even smell the small taint of strawberries.

"Melania?" Emily asked.

"Clarissa, actually," she said. "Hey Melania, I think our delivery is here." Another woman descended the stairs at that cry. She was as perfect as Clarissa, yet different too: tanned where Clarissa was white, raven-haired while her friend was blonde.

"Dibs," Emily said.

Hermione responded with a stunner, which Emily followed up with by casting one of her own. They then levitated the unconscious girls closer, laying them down on the chilly floor. Even knocked out, they still looked absolutely gorgeous. She didn't even feel the tense pull of a Veela allure; they were just that pretty by nature.

"You ever cast legilimency?" Hermione asked.

"Of course. It's a NEWT req for Dark Arts."

"Of course it is. All right then. I'll see you on the other side." Hermione levelled her wand at Clarissa and verbally cast, _"Legilimens!_ "

Emily steeled herself first. As spells went, the casting was relatively easy. It's what happened as a result that made it difficult. She'd step directly into the victim's mind plane. It wasn't mind reading at all; she'd actually be diving in as an incorporeal form into the poor girl's mind. There were other methods, that allowed for a less direct interaction, but this was the only one that allowed direct absorption of the person and their secrets. All of Melania's fears, wants, all of them would become hers. And, if Melania knew Occlumency (one of the few magical skills that even Muggles could use), she'd be fighting against the defence of the mind. It was risky. An untrained witch could go into a coma if locked in the other's trained mind. To say nothing of the havoc the links mind could cause on each other.

Seeing that Hermione was already deep under, Emily raised her wand, and cast _Legilimens_.


	9. Chapter 8: Inception

**Chapter 8: Inception**

 **A/N: Not dead. Hopefully more updates coming soon.**

She was falling, her hair rustling in the wind. Beneath her, an unending, unceasing void. And yet-she was at peace. It felt like she was floating, a bliss washing over her. She took a deep breath. It smelled like strawberries.

 _No_.

Emily shook herself free from the mind-haze. Of course the girl knew Occulmency. Most of the upper class did; a virtual requirement for living in a world dominated by witches and wizards. With the haze wiped clean, a light appeared before her: a manhole in the blank void. Emily aimed for it and twirled through it, the momentum propelling her high into the air in this upside-down world. In the distance: the Eiffel Tower and the Hallows flag flying proudly above it. _Paris._

She whipped out her wand-or would've, had she not been wandless and indeed, magicless. _This was her mind. I need to play by her rules_. Emily therefore didn't cast a spell or do anything else. She just willed herself to not be hurt by the crash back on the ground. And then-she just bounced a bit as the ground took the impact, like a child's ball. A passing crowd stopped and stared at her.

 _Normal thoughts_ , she warned herself. Wiping her own mind, she sidestepped the hole back to the void world and tried to blend in by walking on the sidewalk. The crowd, hungry like watching vultures, stared at her in brusque silence. But, after a minute of glaring, they went back to their lives, as if Emily were nothing at all. She turned the corner to another street, and immediately recognized the tell-tale Himalayan mountains, stretching out before her, Everest standing proud in the center.

She needed to find Melania, and quick. Most decent Occulmens could create elaborate mental shields against full-on intrusion. The more creative the mind, the better the protection. Emily herself liked mazes and games that never had any solution. It wasn't the best defense possible; Luna Lovegood, a Ravenclaw a year younger than her, could trap people twice her age in her mind. Emily never had a go into Loony's head, but apparently, Lavender Brown had lost the ability to speak words for two days afterwards. When she finally snapped out of it, all she could say was, again and again, "I have no mouth, and I must scream". Hopefully Melania wasn't that good.

With nowhere else to go but up, she started climbing. The hike, in the real world, could take days. It probably never would've ended, much like Emily's own mazes. The solution was just to punch through the walls and make your own shortcuts, all while not triggering the active defenses of the mind.

 _I'm on the top of Mount Everest_ , Emily thought. And in a single step forward, she was. Here, the skyline was an inverted blue orb, stretching infinitely up. Above her: the warmer dot of Paris and other, different structures. Clearly, Everest was supposed to be an impossible get; it was physically impossible to reach via normal methods. But, like most things in a mindscape, it could be cheated.

She looked around, trying to find the next step in the puzzle. Her stomach turned in on itself as she saw it. The telltale silver skulls led by whitened face of Lord Voldemort himself. He led the procession of Death Eaters towards her, only a few feet beneath her. It was the one reason why she hated legilimency: for some reason, perhaps due to the fact he killed her parents, he was always there, and often joined the Occulmency defenses in repelling Emily. One time, when breaching Ron's mind to practice for the NEWTs, he'd caught her, and cursed her to the brink of madness, to a point where Neville Longbottom instead reverse-legilimized her (it led to their quick fling, so she couldn't complain too much).

There was nothing else on the summit save for a small doorway some thirty feet above her, leading to a whole different world beyond it. A glance at Voldemort: his red-tinted eyes glared back at her. _Shit_. She had to go, and go _now_. There was no way to reach the door portal, except to… yes, it was the only way. Looking at Paris, she thought _I am falling_. And then-gravity and the world around lurched, grabbing her from the navel.

Righting herself just in time, she fell through the door, emerging right side up in a narrow, long-hallway. Glancing at the approaching Voldemort behind her, she shut the door, and reopened it, seeing nothing but wooden wall. That bought her some time, but he had her scent now. It wouldn't take long before he found her again.

She had emerged into an underwater hotel, she realized as she stepped into a cavernous wooden room. Pillars of stone stood erected, etched with Asian letters. Beyond the thin, transparent glass, fish and merpeople swam. The people within moved about with little care in swishing robes and drinks in hand. Judging by the outerwear and other banners on the wall, she figured it must've been somewhere in Japan. And there, at the bar, a girl who stood out from the rest of the crowd: Melania herself.

Emily took a deep breath and approached her. The rest of the mental constructs took little notice of the new arrival; for now, at least. With Voldemort on her trail and judging by the amount of defenses, she really only had one strategy for a chance of success: a woman in the middle attack. It was extraordinarily risky and very likely to not work. But it was her only shot. Worst case, she'd have to mind-wipe Melania and try again-as long as Voldemort didn't catch her, that is.

She reached the bar and flashed a single upraised finger to the bartender, who handed her a white, milky substance. She took a swig; it tasted like rosewater mixed with sake. Emily took a glance at Melania, who had still not noticed her.

"Excuse me miss?" Emily asked.

Melania spared her a quick glance, flashing her long eyelashes. "Yes?"

"Do you know who I am?" Emily asked.

She put her drink down, taking a closer look at Emily. "You do look a bit familiar." As she said this, the other mental constructs stopped their buzzing, inaudible conversations to stare at them.

"I'm Susan Bones, your head of security. Do you remember?"

Melania blinked rapidly. "Susan? I don't-" her voice was drowned out by the bartender shattering a glass in his hand. The other constructs grew silver masks from a growing sheen of fog.

"Focus, ma'am," Emily said. "I'm your head of security. Do you know why I'm here?"

Melania scratched her forehead as the bartender himself turned into a Death Eater. "Someone's trying to get into my mind."

"That's right," Emily said, nodding. "I'm here to help you defend your mind."

The hallway leading to Everest shattered then, Voldemort stepping out from the debris. "Who is it?" Melania asked.

"I don't know ma'am, I'm just a mental projection myself. I'm you."

" _Lies_ ", Lord Voldemort hissed. Poor Melania looked even more confused.

"Listen," Emily said. "You need to lower your shields and let me inside. I can shore up your defenses."

"How do I know I can trust you?" Melania asked

"Because, I am you," Emily said, and with a careful thought, transformed herself into the mirror image of her victim.

The real Melania looked at her doppelganger, then nodded. In that instant, Emily grabbed Melania's arms and stepped deeper into her mind.

* * *

 _I am three years old. It's my first memory. I'm in my father's home. He's not here. He never is. Miss Penelope raises us. She's a nice Muggle lady. She's not being nice now. I'm red-handed and caught: I took a toy wand from the next-door neighbor's older kid. I tried to cast a spell. It didn't work. Now it's cold and I'm hungry and I want to eat and have my warm blanky._

 _I am older now. In a white building with white-tuniced people. My father is here. It's one of the few times I've seen him. He's an older man, with a rough face-scarred and pox-marked. He spares me a glare, but never a smile. The white tunics come in. They run several wands over me. Force me to drink a potion, or several. I don't recall much. It was all a haze. But I know I don't have it. The gift, they call it._

 _Father beats me. Calls me weak. A squib. His wand lashes out in a vicious red. I feel pain. All my nerves on fire. It's worse than death. And I want to die. Let him please dash my head against the hall. Crucify me. Anything but this! And then it stops._

 _He has other daughters, and forces me to stay with them. Miss Penelope is killed in the central square. She'd mated with her husband and birthed an accursed. I don't get why they killed her. She was nice to me._

 _I met Clarissa today. She's funny and smart and a better person than me. Lives in the flat next to mine. I wish I was her._

 _The other girls aren't as sympathetic. We each fight for father's attention. The older ones get a nice wizarding husband. The less lucky are just rotated in and out of relationships._

 _Today, I found out about privilege. On a whim, I took a Knight Bus to Unterlondon. The abject poverty! The abject horror! Father cares nothing for us, but at least we're fed well enough. I'd never wanted for anything. To think: people fight for scraps of rotten rat!_

 _The last of the other girls left today. Now it's just me. The others married, or are romping elsewhere, and some are dead. Even father doesn't visit anymore. Too busy to care about his solitary Squib, the youngest of his brood._

 _I use my allowance to purchase a new flat with Clarissa. I like her a lot. I don't know if she feels the same about me. It can't be of course. As squibs, we have a duty to breed a new magicals._

 _We met Sirius Black today. His sister downright scares us, but he seems alright. Good pedigree, nice sense of humor. Clarissa wants to bone him and leave him. But I think the forever bachelor can be swooned to marriage. If we both play hard to get, we can seduce him._

 _The plan is working. We haven't lain with him once, and already, he's ravenous for more. Not that I want him, truly, as an equal partner. I don't love him. All I want from him is his name. To think: me, a Black! Father would be both proud and furious._

 _Clarissa kissed me tonight. She was drunk, I was drunk. We'd just come back from a party with Black. She apologized. I did too. But I didn't mean it._

 _I see two witches. They cast a spell on Clarissa! And then: blackness._

* * *

Emily cast obliviate and erased that last part. She parted her arms from Melania's, bringing herself back to the hotel. She was a little shaken, seeing more of herself in Melania than she'd like to admit. And now, with Polyjuice, she would become her-in body and spirit.

" _Crucio_!" Voldemort yelled. The torture curse splashed over Emily as she yelled in her mind to wake up. It felt just as bad as the real thing.

Another torture curse hit her. "Wake me up, Hermione!" she yelled, hoping the other witch heard. The pain flared, and she collapsed onto the ground.

The windows cracked and shattered open, a fountain of cold water streaming out. Voldemort's wand tip glowed green. The water hit her. And then-

* * *

Emily opened her eyes, her face red-hot. She was on the ground, next to Melania, Hermione standing above her. She took a deep breath. Hermione reached down, and pulled her up.

"You all right?" Hermione asked.

Emily nodded. "Mental defences." She left out the Master's underling invading her mind yet again.

Hermione nodded. "You pull all the info you could?"

"Yeah. Melania's in love with Clarissa."

"Really? Well, that's not what Clarissa believes. In either case, we can get away with being hard to get with Sirius."

"If he doesn't propose to us at the party."

"He's gaudy but not that gaudy." Hermione's plucked a handful of hairs from both. "C'mon. Did you obliviate her?"

Emily cast a full mind-wipe. "She's forgotten all about the invite to Black's and our faces."

"Same. Well, all right," Hermione smiled. Emily felt a flitter in the pit of her stomach, like Melania felt looking at Clarissa. She shook her head, wiping the thought from her mind."Let's go see how Ronald is faring."

They did one final sweep to clear evidence and made sure to obliviate the entrance guard before apparating back to Hermione's flat.


End file.
